


Fluorescent

by immistermercury



Series: fluorescent! verse [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (very very minor), Alternate Universe - Ballet, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Physical Abuse, Poor Freddie, Rape Recovery, Verbal Abuse, freddie dances for the royal ballet, freddie finding his identity, if you like mr robot you might like this, in this house we hate paul prenter, jim being a sweetheart and cleaning up all the mess, literally just the softest boys from chap 54 onwards, references to restricted eating, smut in chapter 58, the 70s were not a fun time to be gay, the boys are in the band, the boys love each other unconditionally, this is gonna be a long one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2019-10-16 06:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 74
Words: 123,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immistermercury/pseuds/immistermercury
Summary: Everyone is born with skills. Some people can paint, some can draw, play instruments, play sports. Some can dance, some can sing, some can light up a room just by walking into it. Some people have the skill to manipulate other people's skills for their own benefit.ORFreddie moves to London at 18 to pursue a career at The Royal Ballet. He is naive, optimistic, so full of love and ready to trust. He just doesn't realise that people aren't always what they seem, until one day he gets his big break.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! This is going to be a slightly heavier, more elaborate and less fluffy fic from me this time. No characters have been changed (aside from Freddie's dancing ability!), so you can imagine everyone as you please. This fic will reference/depict psychological abuse and its consequences throughout, but it will also have a happy ending! This chapter begins halfway through the story as it is the prologue; the next chapter will see us move back to when Freddie first moves to London.

This boy was the strangest mixture of romance and heartbreak that Jim had ever seen. He was exaggerated in so many ways, the big doe eyes surrounded by the darkest kohl, any instance of frustration magnified in the roll of his shoulders, the way that he would throw himself away from whatever he was doing. He was almost grotesque, a caricature, everything ever so slightly bent and warped. The makeup was too light on his face, his lips too red; the satin of his shirt was hanging off his collarbones at awkward angles, causing creases in his shirt to look like slashes in the dirty light of the bar.

 

His knuckles were cut open, one hand cradled in the other, the wound still new, still open, still bleeding. The red stood out on his skin, matching the painted scarlet of his lips. Its garish colour clashed with the purple bruises standing out from where the makeup had begun to rub off; his face was a palette in itself of dark reds, blues, purples and faded yellows.

 

And while his appearance was intimidating, it was intimidating for all the wrong reasons. It made Jim feel sick to see somebody like this in a bar, somebody shaking and needing help, needing reassurance. He should be with somebody, with a friend or with family, not looking lost and vulnerable in front of strangers. His face screamed naivety, screamed for help, screamed that he didn’t know where he was or what day it was or what he was supposed to do next.

 

And yet, all this was juxtaposed by a grace that Jim felt perverted for drinking in. He carried himself so carefully, moved so fluidly, toes pointed as he walked. He was slender, Jim could see from the hollows of his cheekbones, and it seemed to emphasise the little things more; there was more focus on his lips, ruby red and cracked, and on his eyes.

 

When Jim’s eyes met the stranger’s, his drink froze on its way to his mouth. Those eyes were like something from a nightmare: they were red, they were lost and frightened and oh-so-pretty, big and dark and framed by the thickest of lashes. He couldn’t find it in himself to ignore them, to ignore in the same way that everyone else was simultaneously staring at him and avoiding him. The boy seemed to beg for his help in that glance, seemed to fixate on him as though he were the only person in the whole world that he needed in that moment.

 

He stood up and moved towards the young man. “Are you okay?” He asked, keeping his voice as soft as possible. He noticed the way that he seemed to recoil from the question, but also recognised how glad he was to not be ignored any longer. Dark hair moved as he looked upwards, revealing a face so angular, so jarring and so pointed yet so elegant.

 

The boy looked up at him, and Jim could see how significant the bruising around his mouth was. “I’m not sure.” He said quietly, trying to smile. The gesture looked painful; Jim inadvertently placed a hand on the boy- the man’s bicep. Up close, he could see his age in the firmness of his skin, his full jaw and the hint of shadow across his cheeks. He was young, younger than Jim for sure, but he was no child.

 

Jim nodded slowly in reply, looking around momentarily. “You want some help getting cleaned up?” He offered, his touch a feather light yet grounding presence for the stranger. His own mind was a confused place, the real and the physical were more reliable, the only thing he could truly trust in that moment.

 

“I’d like that.” He said, a little tremble in his voice that betrayed the impending build up of emotions that weighed heavily on his chest. “People think that the makeup is a little garish.” His eyes glanced around nervously, fixated on the response of people around him. He finally gazed back up to Jim but shied away from meeting his eyes, instead focusing on the little shaving cut on his left cheek.

 

A careful hand was placed on the small of the stranger’s back, guiding him through leers, through comments, through purposeful looks that wanted to eat him alive for all the wrong reasons. “Can I have your name?” The voice asked, bringing the stranger back into the moment, stopping him from floating back into his own mind.

 

Those doe eyes met Jim’s again for a moment, before flitting to look over his shoulder. He paused for a moment, as though to consider lying about his response, before he let out the smallest of sighs. Something in him troubled Jim; it troubled him how somebody younger than him could be so wary yet so vulnerable. He seemed so small, physically and emotionally, though he was but an inch shorter. “Freddie.” The voice came finally.

 

Freddie. Derived from the word for peace. When Jim looked into his eyes, he saw anything but peace: he saw anguish, anxiety, hopelessness. He challenged himself to look further, look deeper, look past the superficial bruising and the makeup that would be cleaned up once they got behind the bar. He saw a body slender but strong, mind and body in perfect alignment. Mental turmoil, yet physical peace. More importantly, he saw somebody that needed his help.

 

Jim led him behind the bar, into the back room, somewhere empty yet a little more cozy that the continuous chaos of the club. “I’m Jim.” He said once he had closed the door behind them, shutting out most of the noise that threatened to overwhelm their conversation. He watched the way Freddie’s breath hitched a little as he watched the door shut, noticed how he glanced around momentarily, eyes fixating on the window for just a second too long. “I can keep it open if you’d like.” Jim offered softly, propping the door open with an old doorstop. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d want a break from the noise.”

 

Freddie looked up at him, lips parted ever-so-slightly in disbelief. Nobody had ever noticed him checking the exits of a room before. “Thank you.” The words came out before he could stop them. He watched as Jim grabbed some makeup wipes and a first aid kit and suddenly glanced at his bloody hand again, a feeling of shame and bewilderment threatening to overwhelm him. He sat back on the couch and Jim came to sit in front of him, pulling a chair close enough to help him whilst ensuring that they weren’t too close. 

 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Jim said quietly, placing the supplies on the small table to the side of them. “Do you mind if I do this, or would you rather do it yourself?” He asked. He forgave himself for treading on eggshells, putting it down to the recognition that he had to help this man, but that he also had to respect him.

 

Freddie wasn’t used to respect like this. His breath hitched again, the rise and fall of his chest slightly faster, betraying how overwhelmed he was by the questions. It was difficult to think for himself. “I don’t mind.” He came to eventually, watching the accepting look wash over Jim’s face. His brow softened, he nodded minutely, his eyes seemed to open a little wider as he eyebrows relaxed from their tense furrow.

 

“That’s okay.” He said quietly, reaching for the makeup wipes. He took one from the pack and folded it a couple of times before gently touching it to Freddie’s jawline, his other hand coming to cup the other side of his face to hold it steady. “I’m going to start by cleaning off the makeup first, okay? Then I’ll have a look at your eyebrow and your knuckles.” He murmured reassuringly.

 

Freddie just nodded, barely wincing as the wipe cleaned his face. It was soothing, to be looked after by somebody else, to have them focus their energy entirely on you. “Thank you.” He whispered again, allowing his heavy eyes to finally close and releasing some of the nervous tension from his shoulders.

 

Jim hummed as he continued the task at hand, cleaning Freddie’s face and then soothing it with a cool cloth. He let himself admire as a warm skin tone was revealed, the colour seeming to blend so perfectly with his haunting eyes. “How did this happen?” He asked softly. He assumed it was a bar fight, or the guy being jumped for his wallet, but somewhere in his mind he worried it was something more sinister.

 

“Tonight was supposed to be my night.” Came the cryptic response, eyes slowly coming back open again. “I don’t know why I ever thought it would happen. It was always obvious that I wouldn’t be able to do it.” 

 

The hatred in his voice made something in Jim’s gut ache. He forced himself to keep his voice and his hand steady as he locked eyes again with Freddie. “Do what?” He asked, his breath light over Freddie’s cheek.

 

The man looked away, suddenly bringing himself away from Jim’s gentle touch as he sunk further into his own self-loathing. “I can’t tell you.” He said, resting his head in his hands and roughly pressing against the bruising around his eyes. The jolt of pain made his body react with a lurch, before the dull ache started in the back of his skull. “I can’t tell you, because then you’ll think about me the same way as they do, and then I’ll have to go again.” His breathing quickened and Jim could see it in the way as his shoulders moved with a jerky rhythm, losing their earlier elegance.

 

Freddie was losing himself again, losing himself to the spots of light that danced across his field of vision, coaxed into a world of bright lights and spinning stars. And then, he was being coaxed differently: a gentle hand on the wrist, encouraging him to uncurl, encouraging him to treat himself with care. He let himself be moved, the faint touches only acting as guidance, never trying to force him to move. “It’s okay.” The Irish accent filled his mind momentarily, reverberating around each corner of his mind. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.” Jim repeated himself, resting his other hand over Freddie’s tense shoulders. “If you press on that bruising it’ll give you a headache.” He said softly, his voice so obviously full of care for the other man.

 

Freddie swallowed as Jim took his hand, letting him clean the dried blood from his skin. “Thank you.” He whispered again, holding onto the small phrase like a mantra. His eyes burned as tears suddenly welled in them; one, hot and salty, rolled down his cheek and landed with a splash on the back of his hand.

 

And then, all at once, he finally let the wall around his mind be defeated by kind eyes and a warm smile. He was crying, one hand over his mouth to try and stifle his sobs from habit, the other clinging to Jim’s hand for his life. Like the rest of him, his fingers were so warm, so careful yet holding his hand so tightly when he needed it.

 

Freddie was pulled closer, pulled into two arms that held him so tightly together as he threatened to shatter in two entirely. He was so fragile, a cracked wine glass catching the light for all the wrong reasons, standing out from amongst the pristine others. He needed to speak, needed to scream, needed to laugh and shout and break things, but he couldn’t.

 

He rested his head against Jim’s chest, one hand clutching tight to his bicep, letting himself feel protected in that moment. Even as his inner world collapsed, the outer world remained firm and stable, keeping him grounded in space and time.

 

Jim eased Freddie’s fist from where it was jammed into his mouth as he began to calm, taking it carefully and lightly tracing his thumb over the bite marks. “You’re going to be okay.” He promised again, lacing their fingers together. “I promise, Freddie. You’re going to be okay.”


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The comments seemed so innocuous, so promising, and Freddie loved having somebody by him to help him out. It was tempestuous at times, but aren't all good relationships?

“Do you really think that you’ll make it?” Paul questioned. His voice was light, as light as the fingers threading through Freddie’s hair, the younger man’s head in his lap. “You seem to get injured a lot.” He commented, throwing a quick glance at the cast around Freddie’s ankle.

 

“That’s because I’m careless.” Freddie’s voice was robotic, more of a hollow echo than a considered response as he avoided the question. He closed his eyes as the fingers tugged at his hair lightly, encouraging a response. “I don’t know.” He murmured eventually. “I like to think that I’ll get into The Royal Ballet.” He admitted, tilting his head back and exposing the long column of his throat.

 

“You’re only in The Royal Ballet School.” Paul’s voice had an edge to it, one that warned Freddie that his fingers could become less friendly. “You’re not even there yet. You don’t start until Wednesday. You don’t know that you’re good enough.” The tension came back into Freddie’s shoulders as he heard his inner worries voiced aloud, validated.

 

“I guess not.” He replied, his voice weakened. He looked down at his ankle, pointing one foot and raising the cast into the air. “I’m on half days while I’ve got this on. It’s only a hairline fracture, and the doctor thinks it’s healing well, so I should be able to have it off in a few weeks.” The weight of the cast made his leg ache after a while; he was used to holding himself up, supporting others, but not holding extra weight. 

 

“How are you supposed to make it if you don’t practice with everyone else?” Paul’s voice was far sharper, looking down at Freddie with a warning. Freddie hated to disappoint him, knew how many favours Paul was doing him by letting him stay in his Covent Garden flat. All he asked in return was for Freddie to work hard, to maintain his scholarship, to pay him from the financial aid. If he didn’t practice, he risked losing his scholarship, and then he couldn’t pay.

 

“I’m still doing physical therapy.” Freddie tried to defuse the argument that he felt blooming, the idea making him feel sick. “And I’m working on my upper body strength. I should be good at lifts by the time I’m fully back.” He smiled weakly, sitting up beside Paul. “I won’t lose this for us, I promise.”

 

Paul cupped Freddie’s cheek, pressing a momentary kiss to his lips. “Of course you won’t. I won’t let you.” He smiled and Freddie relaxed, stretching his legs out in front of him. He rocked his head from side to side, stretching out the little muscles in his neck, and then ruffled a hand through his hair.

 

“We’re playing this Saturday night.” Freddie said, turning to face his lover. “We’ve got another bar gig. They’re getting easier to book.” He smiled, fiddling with a small strand of his hair.

 

“You’re going to play with that on?” Paul asked, nodding at the big blue boot strapped to Freddie’s ankle. “I don’t think you’re fit enough to play if you’re not fit enough to dance.”

 

Freddie seemed to consider it for a moment, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and sinking his teeth into it.

 

Paul had this way of getting into his mind, he recognised. Had this way of making him see when he was making mistakes, when he was working too hard or wasn’t working hard enough. Freddie respected that, respected how he looked at things objectively and told him truthfully when he was about to do the wrong thing. Going from a Parsi schoolboy to an immigrant in a big city was a nerve-wracking experience, and he was glad to have somebody along that would help him with the ride. He needed someone to teach him the right way to go about things, to push him harder when he was slacking and to teach him to relax when he was at risk of pushing himself too far. Freddie was dependent, and Paul liked to be depended on; he considered himself grateful for their dynamic.

 

“Maybe you’re right.” Freddie said after a pause. “I think we’re supposed to have an A&R man from EMI coming, though. I don’t want to lose that.” His words were soft but he was picking at his nails, suddenly caught between his obligations.

 

“The band’s only a bit of fun, Fred, remember.” Paul lay across the sofa, resting his feet in Freddie’s lap. “You don’t need to worry about it so much. It’s the dance that’s going to take you places.” Freddie nodded in response, finally glancing up to meet his eyes.

 

His face was hopeful in that moment, noticing the shift in Paul’s tone from earlier. “You think I’m going to get places?” He asked, lolling his head to one side in an almost childlike manner.

 

“As long as you practice enough.” Paul’s smile was warm, and pride blossomed through Freddie’s chest. “You’ll be wonderful in no time. You just have to not let anyone distract you with their own ambitions, don’t let them try and wrap you up. Just because Roger wants the fame and the groupies doesn’t mean that you have to help him live out his deluded fantasies.”

 

Freddie grinned in response. “You’re so right, darling. I’ll phone them and cancel the show. I’ve got an ankle I need to rest.” He laughed, everything suddenly feeling so much more settled in his mind. “It’s a shame I won’t see them this week, though. We’ll get out of practice.” He joked.

 

“Darling?” Paul questioned, sitting up and poking Freddie playfully. “I like that one. Keep it.” He chuckled when Freddie batted his hands away with a squeak. “It’s good that you’re not stuck together like glue, remember. They’re not the best influences on you, love, and you’re going to make much bigger and much better friends over the years.”

 

Freddie grasped his hand tightly, a smile beaming from ear to ear. “We will, darling. We’ll do it together.” He promised, looking so earnest in that moment. “You’re always there to help me out, I’m taking you with me.” Paul grinned in response, kissing Freddie’s cheek lightly.

 

“You’re too good to me.” He insisted. “I’ll be with you the whole time, love. I’m going to make sure that everything works out just right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25 chapters? It's a blessing for us all.


	3. You Can Do It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie just loves making music with his favourite boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a very (very) minor reference to restricted eating here, so beware if that's something that may possibly upset you.

John watched as Freddie leaned over the mixing board to toggle the drum level on their latest song. He had a way of moving that was so ethereal, so graceful yet so effortless; he rested on his boot, pointing his toes as he raised the other leg to his hip height. He rarely wore shoes in the studio, having adopted Brian’s philosophy of how restricting shoes can be. He seemed to move so unconsciously in that moment, but John could see the years of training in how he held himself, the way he was careful not to lock out his knee and the way that he tightened his core to lean down further. He sometimes found himself watching for a little too long; he found himself absorbed in the beauty and grace that Freddie seemed to radiate.

 

“Are you sure you should lean on your leg like that?” John asked as he moved towards the board, resting a hand on Freddie’s lower back. “Don’t want to make your ankle any worse.” He leaned over and carefully adjusted the vocals on the third harmony, irritated by how they’d been drowned out by the increase in drums.

 

Freddie gave him a look, but accompanied it with a playful smile. “I’m getting the cast off tomorrow. It’s all fixed up, don’t you worry about me.” He insisted, turning around and sitting on the clear space of the desk. “It healed perfectly.”

 

John smiled, leaning his bass up against the desk. “It’s good to know that you won’t be wiped out before you’ve started your classes.” He watched the spots of excitement grow on Freddie’s cheeks, the subtlest pink that he knew from experience. He’d seen that colour before big meetings and big performances.

 

“I should be doing my first class the day after tomorrow.” He crossed his arms, running a set of fingertips over his soft skin. It was an unconscious movement, one driven from the force of habit. It had started as a quick touch to his mother’s skin to calm his racing heartbeat, then his sister’s to remind him that he wasn’t on his own; it had become a theme of the times he was nervous. “The warm-up class is alongside the principals. I’m scared that I won’t understand what I have to do.” He admitted, ruffling a hand through his long hair.

 

“Freddie Mercury, don’t be ridiculous.” Roger said as he came into the room, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a t-shirt long forgotten. “I’ve never met someone pick something up as easily as you do. Don’t put yourself down.” He brushed past them and pressed a few buttons on the keypad, the room suddenly being filled with the sound of drums. The three men were silent a minute, listening intently, until Roger winced. “I fucked up the snare. It’s too heavy.”

 

Freddie shook his head immediately. “It’s nice!” He insisted. “I like it. It sounds better when it’s more aggressive, it fits the tempo better.” He promised, hazel eyes meeting Roger’s blue. “It sounds better when we’re more experimental, darling.”

 

“Darling?” Brian asked as he walked into the room and kicked his shoes off under the table. “Something you’re not telling us, boys?” He asked. Freddie stood up and smacked his arm playfully.

 

“Don’t you dare.” Freddie tried to sound dramatic, but burst into laughter instead. “I like the word. It rolls nicely off the tongue. You’re all my darlings, darling.” He grinned over at Brian. John started to laugh too, the sound of Freddie’s happiness just so infectious, and soon all the boys were laughing. “I need to record another vocal. Anyone got any suggestions?” Freddie asked when they’d all calmed a little, although Roger occasionally broke into another little laugh.

 

“Seven Seas.” Roger said immediately. Brian and Roger both turned to look at him, and he shrugged. “I love a bit of falsetto, sue me.” Freddie, on the other hand, gave him a million-dollar smile and headed for the door. “You spoil me, darling. You know that’s my favourite.” Roger’s giggles returned and he shot Freddie a wink.

 

“How d’you think he’s doing?” Brian asked as they sat down, John at the mixing desk and the others on the sofa behind. He kicked his feet up on the table in front of them and Roger lay down with his head in his lap. Brian’s fingers automatically went to Roger’s hair. “Christ, you smell.”

 

Roger let out an indignant gasp. “You try hitting things for a living. You don’t exactly smell like a field of roses yourself, Brian.” He pouted, but continued to let Brian pet his hair. “And I’m not sure about Fred. He seems happy, but…” He trailed off and shrugged, catching one of Brian’s hands and running his thumb over Brian’s calluses.

 

“But?” John asked, half an ear on the conversation and half on Freddie in the booth. John was designated the technician, being the one with the engineering experience, and also being the one who loved to show off his technological prowess.

 

“I’m not sure.” Roger said after a pause. “He talks about himself differently, now. I don’t think I like it.” He admitted, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. “I don’t know. He seems more- more self conscious, I think? Like what he was saying just now about messing up. That’s never bothered him before.”

 

“It hasn't?” Brian asked, cocking an eyebrow and looking down at the blonde in his lap.  “He is starting a new school. It’s way more prestigious than either of his old schools were.” He pointed out.

 

“Fred’s always been pretty c’est la vie about these things.” John agreed with Roger. “He always found it fun, saw it as a challenge. He always said that you couldn’t be precious about those kind of things if you were going to go professional.” He gave Freddie the thumbs up, hitting play and record simultaneously.

 

“It’s weird.” Roger commented. “I don’t like Prenter. I think he’s got something to do with it.” He narrowed his eyes a little as he looked up at Brian.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rog.” Brian insisted. “Paul’s been nothing but good to him. Hell, to all of us! He helped us get this, after all.” He pointed out. “Fred’s just a bit nervous. You can’t blame him for spending time with his boyfriend.”

 

Roger hummed a little, clearly dissatisfied with Brian’s response. “You should go out with him one night. You know Freddie always talks after a couple of drinks.” John chuckled. “I’m sure Brian’s right. Paul’s been nothing but a sweetheart to him since we first met.”

 

Roger grabbed his drumsticks off the table, tapping out a rhythm on his thighs. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’re both wrong.” He sat up as Freddie came in, almost vibrating with excitement.

 

“How was that?” He asked, shifting from one foot to another. John noticed the sweat that had stuck to the front of the white shirt; he’d always be a little jealous of Freddie’s physique, though he respected how hard he trained for it.

 

“Haven’t listened to it yet, John didn’t play it.” Brian said, walking over to the desk and hitting play. Freddie’s voice filled the room, and he couldn’t help it as his face split into a grin. “It’s wonderful, Fred!” He insisted as Roger began to harmonise, unable to help himself. The four were left in stunned silence when the record came to an abrupt end. “God, listen to you!”

 

Freddie grinned, not even trying to hide his smile this time, his cheeks pink and his smile demure. “Thank you, darling.” He said boldly. “And now, you all need to come in here and help me do the harmonies. Roger, bring your dog whistle.” He joked.

 

They bounced down the corridor together, each riding hide off the energy of the others. There was nowhere in the whole world that Freddie felt safer than with these three. He turned around, walking backwards down the corridor as he recounted another dramatic tale to them. Brian was almost sure that he was making them up now, seeing how far he could push it until they stopped believing him.

 

He seemed to fall in slow motion, the whole world fading out as he blacked out for a second. Roger noticed before anyone else, reaching out to grab him, steady him, to keep him upright. Brian wrapped a strong arm around his waist, sitting him down carefully. “Fred.” He said, his voice firm but calm. “Freddie, look at me.”

 

The fuzz cleared from his mind and he looked up into Brian’s worried face. “Darling, don’t make a fuss.” He said as soon as Roger’s mouth opened. “Low blood sugar happens to the best of us dancers.” He insisted, standing up shakily.

 

Roger settled for squeezing his hand instead, helping him into the booth. “Anything I can grab for you?” He asked, sitting him down on the counter by the microphone.

 

“I’ve got some fruit juice in my bag, if you wouldn’t mind.” He asked sweetly, smiling lightly at Roger. The latter walked back to the mixing room, finding the bottle in Freddie’s bag. It had a little note attached to it, and he couldn’t help but look at what was written.

 

_You can do it, baby._

_\- Paul x_

 

 


	4. Morning Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something to be said for having big ambitions and daring to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickly gonna say it - in this fic, Mary is a nice person! I'm not getting involved in the politics of actual Mary and Freddie - while some of what she did was definitely questionable, she was an important friend to Freddie, and so that's what she is here. Also, ironically, I don't dance, so if any of my terminology is off then please forgive me!

Freddie was glad to have a friend and mentor in Mary. To have somebody that had been through the whole experience only months before him was comforting, somebody who could teach him the ropes without being patronising. They’d auditioned together in the partner class, but Mary had become a dancer before he had; as a girl from the Lower School, she hadn’t faced the same problem as he had with gaining funding to study. She seemed to swan through naturally, to understand the mysteries of practice that were so different in England than in India.

 

Freddie came into the room in a simple white shirt and his leggings, pleased to see that he didn’t look out of place amongst the others. He chose his barre spot next to Mary and sat beside her, taking his shoes from his bag. In return, she grinned over at him, sparing him a quick hug before going back to tearing out the inside of her pointe shoes. “What did they ever do to you?” Freddie asked playfully.

 

“You don’t dance pointe, you don’t understand.” She playfully stuck out her tongue. “The old ones wore out, so I’ve got to sort these before class so I can change quickly before we do centre.” She put the fabric in her bag, quickly testing the shank with her hands.

 

Freddie nodded, carefully smoothing out the elastics as he put his own on. “Is the changeover quick?” He asked, betraying his nervousness. He flexed his ankle carefully, thrilled that there didn’t seem to be a hint of stiffness or pain remaining.

 

Mary sent him a smile, and he smiled back. “I forgot it’s your first one. We do around half an hour on barre, and then forty-five minutes in centre. We do centre in groups, so if you need longer in the changeover then you can be one of the later groups.” She explained, and he smiled with a little relief. 

 

“That’s a relief.” He admitted and stood up. As he did, Mary whistled playfully, putting on her own split-sole slippers. 

 

“Someone’s being working out.” She commented, standing up beside him and pressing a friendly kiss to his cheek. “You’ve filled out since I last saw you. That boyfriend of yours has been treating you well, hm?” She asked playfully. In return, he rolled his eyes.

 

“You know how hard it is to dance when one foot’s in a boot, darling.” He chuckled. “Aside from the physio, the training’s been mostly weights. I have a tendency to lose upper-body strength more quickly than lower.” He cast a quick glance over himself in the mirror. “Besides, I definitely haven’t been eating what I should. I’ll get leaner now that I’m back training.” He insisted, kicking his bag to the side to clear his barre space.

 

Mary followed suit, quickly shedding the light sweater that she’d worn on top of her leotard. “You have no idea.” She grinned, resting her hands on the barre as the teacher came into the room. “You’ll be sweating five minutes in, I promise. It’s intense.”

 

There was a certain vivacity that Freddie found in himself when he danced. There was an animation that saturated him when the music started, when the piano flooded his senses, accompanied by the familiar warmth of a cold muscle easing out slowly. He adored the build-up, the feeling progressing into all the tiny muscles in his body. He lost himself in the class, blending so seamlessly with everyone else; they were a company, all breathing one breath and then leaning down in such a graceful swoop that invigorated the muscles of his core.

 

“Freddie, you’re shaking.” Mary murmured as they carried the barre to the side of the room. She rested a hand on him carefully, giving his trembling fingers a comforting squeeze. “What did you eat this morning?” She asked, voice so gentle and steady.

 

“Oh- I- I didn’t.” He admitted, a soft stain spreading down over his chest. “I wasn’t hungry.” He added quickly when he saw the concern in her face. 

 

“I’ve got an energy bar in my bag. Have it.” She implored as she walked away quickly, joining her usual group for centre.

 

There were times in Freddie’s life when he didn’t question people. He ate quickly, shooting her a small and grateful smile before joining a group of men for their first dance. He was so surprised when he heard a “Good job, Freddie!” that he nearly stumbled on his final turn.

 

“How do they know my name?” He asked Mary as they stood together, both watching the principals with a certain combination of awe and jealousy. It was almost as easy to lose himself in their beauty as it was to lose himself in the beauty of his own actions. The studio seemed to breed the community between them, trading in small smiles, kind gestures and kind words. He had never before met such a large group of people, committed like him, passionate like him, living and breathing a dream as a collective. 

 

“You’re something of a phenomenon.” Mary smiled, drinking quickly. “You don’t exactly have the same look as the other guys. You don’t subscribe for the whole blonde hair, blue eyes, million-watt smile thing.” Freddie grinned lopsidedly. “You’re one of the first international students that’s started here. You know, you’re the first international scholarship.”

 

Freddie’s brow furrowed; he opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t seem to find the words. “I am?” He asked eventually.

 

“You are.” She echoed. “They give bursaries in exceptional circumstances, but they haven’t given a full scholarship before.” Mary smiled at him. “Which is why, when you dance, everyone watches. They want to see what you’ve got.”

 

Something bloomed in Freddie’s chest, a feeling of pride that became more difficult to find the older he got. When doing the extraordinary became the mundane, it was easy to forget how hard he had worked to be able to do what was now so easy for him. He forgot how he seemed to burst with pride whenever he mastered what he couldn’t do before, he forgot how it felt to know that he was the best in the room. He forgot how it felt to be offered an audition in London, in England. He forgot how it felt to be offered a place to study full time.

 

“Well, I’d hate to disappoint.” He smiled at Mary as he got ready alongside his group. He let himself remember how it felt to sparkle, to dance with a passion that couldn’t be ignored, to know that every glance was on him and to embrace it. 

  
Except now it was bigger, and now it was better, and now he was making an impression. Making an impression in a country that didn’t seem to value his sport was one thing, but making an impression in England was another entirely.

 

He sat on the floor, back against the wall, chest heaving as he caught his breath. The smile on his face was inalienable, seemingly sewn into his face. “Someone’s happy.” Mary commented as she sat beside him, carefully untying the ribbons from around her ankles.

 

“Sometimes I forget how much I love it.” Freddie admitted, swapping his shoes for a fresh pair of split-soles. “But it’s so electric. When I’m up there, when I know people are looking at me, I couldn’t go wrong if I tried.” He ran a cloth over his face and hair. “I can’t believe you do that every morning.”

 

Mary hummed in response, glancing over at him quickly. “Every single morning. If you love that, wait until you do rehearsals this afternoon. Are you auditioning?” She asked.

 

Freddie considered it for a second, before nodding. “Of course, darling.” He smiled. “Maybe it’s optimistic, but I think it’s worth a shot. If not, it’s only a few months before the next rounds of auditions.”

 

Mary grinned, the expression bright on her face. Freddie noted that she slipped on casual gym shoes and arched an eyebrow, questioning her. “I’ve got academics until midday. English and French.” She explained. “I’ve got dance from one through until four, and then my audition’s at five.”

 

Freddie nodded. “I’ve got pas de deux next, then physio. I’m doing academics this afternoon.” He stood up, retrieving his bag and taking a drink. “I’m doing art and graphic design. Then I’ve got my audition at half four.”

 

“Good luck.” Mary smiled, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You’ll do amazingly, Freddie. I know you will.”


	5. Wardrobe Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London is a dangerous place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a chest infection right now so apologies that this is short (and also apologies if you think it's total garbage!). This has been one hell of a week, so hopefully I'll get back into posting new chapters every few weeks now :)

Freddie twisted quickly in front of the mirror, scanning over his image quickly. He’d swapped the tights for shorts that day, his shirt clung close to his torso, closer than he usually wore. That day was hot, so hot, and rehearsals were becoming more intense; he couldn’t afford to be overheating in studios that were stifling hot. He twisted, letting his gaze quickly brush over his feet, calves, hamstrings. Ballet was so competitive, everybody’s bodies fighting to be the fittest, the prettiest, the most toned or the strongest. 

 

He’d become leaner since getting back into regular training, losing all of the extra weight that he’d been carrying. The outline of his muscles was evident in his legs, exaggerated from their size and strength.

 

He loved getting to this stage, the stage where he knew he was at his fittest, his strongest, his prettiest.

 

With a smile he picked up his ballet bag, heading to the kitchen to grab some water before he went. He paused by the sink, leaning across to peck at Paul’s cheek lightly and then sending him a sunny smile.

 

Paul leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, running his eyes over Freddie’s appearance quickly. “Good morning.” He said. “What’ve you got going on today?” He asked.

 

Freddie quickly filled his bottle and grabbed an energy bar from the cupboard. “We’ve got a visiting teacher doing the warm-up class today.” He hummed. “And then we’re into rehearsals all day. It’s approaching the summer show season.” His face captured his excitement at that: they merged with the Ballet twice a year for productions, giving them the opportunity to work professionally for a few months. “And they’re announcing roles today.”

 

Paul nodded, taking a slow swallow of his coffee. “And what’s the get-up for?” He asked, waving a hand around Freddie’s outfit. “I hope you’re changing before you go out.”

 

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Freddie’s voice immediately softened, back to the nervous tone that he seemed to speak in so often these days. “What’s wrong with it?” He glanced down over his front. 

 

“It’s not exactly subtle, Freddie.” Paul’s response was bitter. 

 

Freddie looked startled but felt something flash through him momentarily. “What do you mean?” He asked quietly.

 

“You look like a whore.” Paul pushed past him, walking down the corridor. “You look like you’re asking for it.”

 

Freddie let out a breath of surprise, his temper bubbling up. “It’s fucking ballet wear.” He responded.

 

Paul scoffed, sending a dangerous glance over his shoulder as he walked into their bedroom. “Don’t get mouthy with me.” He warned.

 

“What, because only you’re allowed to do that?” Freddie spat, leaning one shoulder against the bedroom doorway. “You’re allowed to make me feel like shit, but as soon as I call you out on it, it’s my fault?”

 

Paul grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him over to the closet roughly. “Get changed.” His voice was more of a bark, rough and angry.

 

Freddie wrenched his arm from his tight grip, looking simultaneously fierce and horrified. “Why are you doing this?” He stood motionless, watching a spectrum of emotions flood through his boyfriend’s face.

 

“I love you!” Paul shouted, coming closer. “Fuck me, I won’t try and help you if you’re just going to be a brat about it.” He shoved past Freddie again, knocking him into the wall, and left the bedroom. He slammed the door behind himself.

 

Freddie glanced down at his hands; they were shaking violently, his breath coming quickly. He felt the familiar rise of panic in his chest and tried to squash it quickly.

 

He glanced over himself in the mirror again. Maybe Paul did have a point. The shorts were obscenely short, the shirt too tight on his chest. Suddenly, he didn’t feel that same wave of confidence: instead, he recognised the familiar insecurity that often plagued dancers.

 

He chose a pair of tights and a shirt as loose as he could afford in class. He threw a jacket on top, ignoring how swelteringly hot it was underneath. The outfit didn’t seem to go together as well, the black and white diamonds clashing with the red of the top, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

He left the room slowly, glancing over at his boyfriend, who was staring out of the lounge window. “I’m sorry.” Freddie’s voice was soft, returning to nervousness. He walked up behind him, carefully threading his arms around his middle.

 

Paul let out a long breath, letting one of his hands cover Freddie’s. “My love, you know I’m only trying to protect you.” He said quietly, glancing over his shoulder at Freddie.

 

Freddie nodded furiously in response, pressing his forehead against the other man’s shoulder blade. “I know. I should appreciate you more for it.” He said quietly. “I hate to be wrong, you know? But you’re so right.” He breathed out slowly. “Thank you, darling.”

 

Paul carefully turned around and cupped Freddie’s cheeks slowly. He kissed him gently, held him carefully. “You’ve got to look out for yourself more.” He said softly. “This is London, Freddie. It’s not always as safe as it seems.”

 

Freddie nodded and pressed another kiss to his lips. “I know.” He said quietly. “This is why I need you so badly.” His smile was shy and self-deprecating. “Who else is going to put up with my mood swings and terrible sense of judgement?”

 

Paul laughed then, pulling away slowly. “I don’t know anyone else that would put up with you, Freddie Mercury. You’re too much of a pain in the ass for me at the best of times.” He watched Freddie pick up his bag, saw the crooked smile on his face. “I’ll see you later, love.”

 

“I’ll be back around eight.” Freddie said quietly, turning away from Paul to head towards the door. “I love you.”

 

Paul didn’t quite catch the worry around his eyes as he left the building.


	6. Iced Latte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was so excited when Kash said that she was moving to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally so sorry to anyone who is user subscribed to me because this is my fourth upload of the day (I'm getting back on top of my schedule!).

He propped his sunglasses on his head as he walked into the little coffee shop in Marylebone, spotting his sister almost instantaneously. She looked good, better than she had in a long time, so much more confident. He grinned as he walked towards her, wrapping her in a firm hug. “I’ve missed you so much, darling.” 

 

Kash smiled as she hugged Freddie back, resting her head against his collarbone. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in years.” She said softly, eventually pulling away from the hug. She returned to her armchair, gesturing to the drink on the table. “Double shot iced latte with hazelnut milk and vanilla, right?” She checked, picking up her own mug.

 

Freddie sat across from her and took the cup, tasting it quickly. “It’s perfect.” He told her, kicking his legs over the arm of the chair. “So, tell me! Why on earth are you here in the good Queen’s London?” He asked with a grin.

 

“For much the same reason as you, I think.” She smiled. “I was sick and tired of being somewhere that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do. So I thought, fuck it, if Freddie can move to London then so can I.”

 

Freddie laughed. “And Mum and Dad were thrilled, I assume?”

 

“Dad tried to hide my passport. I think it makes him sad that he hasn’t got either child at home. You’ll have to go over and visit him soon.” Kash smiled, crossing her legs.

 

“So what are you doing with your newfound freedom?” Freddie asked playfully, grabbing a pen from his bag to doodle on his napkin.

 

“I’m going to start studying chemistry in September.” She told him, and he noted the pride in her voice.

 

“Where? In London?” He asked curiously.

 

“At Imperial. I got the World Scientific Scholarship.” She grinned at Freddie’s eyes flew over to her face.

 

“No fucking way!” He laughed as he got out of his seat to hug her. “That’s fucking incredible, Kash!” He held her tightly again for a few seconds, before moving back. “Listen, one of my friends, he’s doing physics with maths there. I’ll introduce you.”

 

Kash smiled. “Look at the pair of us. One gets into Imperial and the other into the fucking Royal Ballet School.” She laughed. “Speaking of which, how’s it going?” She asked curiously.

 

“Really well.” Freddie nodded, grinning widely. “We have three weeks until we start shows, which means I’m working six days a week at the moment and trying to do all the academic stuff on the Sunday.” He chuckled. “It’s so exciting, though. We merge with the Ballet for a little while, so I’ve been doing some of my classes with the principals.”

 

Kash sipped her drink, loving the smile on her brother’s face. In India, his talent was never appreciated, always dismissed because it wasn’t academic or masculine enough. She had the same fever for London as he did, felt the same draw to it: they could both reverse their traditional roles here. The artistic son and the scientific daughter had always been a contentious issue. She remembered the nights that he’d cried, wishing that he’d been a girl just so that his talent wouldn’t be dismissed as fantasy. She remembered the nights that she’d cried, wishing that she were a boy so that people would take her seriously.

 

“I’m so glad that you’re happy here.” She said softly, leaning over and squeezing Freddie’s hand. “How’s it all going with Paul?” She asked.

 

Freddie shrugged and squeezed her hand back. “It ebbs and flows. We had a pretty big blowout a couple of days ago, so we’re just getting over that now.” He explained, sipping his coffee. 

 

“Oh?” Kash arched an eyebrow. “What was it about?”

 

Freddie glanced down at his drink, stirring the straw around his cup. “Oh, I over-reacted. You know what I’m like, dear.” He chuckled. “He asked me nicely to go and change before I went to rehearsal, and I took it as an insult.” He glanced up at Kash. “It’ll be all over when the bruise has gone. He hates looking at it in the mornings.”

 

Kash frowned. “What bruise, Freddie? What did he do?” She leaned forward a little. “Did he hurt you?”

 

“Not deliberately!” Freddie said quickly. “He accidentally bumped into me when he left the room, and I was knocked against the wardrobe door. I just caught the handle under my shoulder-blade.” He explained. 

 

“That must have been a pretty big bump.” Kash said, her tone deadpan. 

 

“It’s a small room.” Freddie shrugged. “It’s barely big enough for the both of us at the best of times.”

 

“Hm.” Kash replied, sipping her tea as she glanced over her brother’s form. “Why did he want you to go and change?” She asked, suddenly remembering what he’d said.

 

“The outfit I was wearing wasn’t even decent, darling.” He chuckled. “One of those tight tops and a little pair of shorts. He didn’t want me being attacked.” Freddie reasoned.

 

Kash gave him a look. “That doesn’t sound too indecent to me. I’ve seen you wear worse in the summer. That fucking kimono, for starters.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood, but she couldn’t deny the worry that bubbled through her chest.

 

Freddie chuckled, glad that she’d dropped the subject. “Don’t you worry about me, dear. I’m doing just fine.” He promised. “Besides, you’re going to be around here now. I’m up at Imperial a lot for rehearsals, so you’ll have to get your nose out of the books to come and talk to me.”

 

Kash laughed, propping her feet up on the table. “Deal. But you have to tell me when you’ve got a show on so that I can come and see you.” She held her little finger out over the table and smiled when Freddie linked it with his.

 

“Welcome to London, darling.”


	7. Silk Pajamas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kash won't accept no for an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise that this isn't especially well-written; I'm still working on writing chapters that are mostly dialogue! The fic is about to launch into more of a narrative now that we've established the scene - brace yourselves!

Kash brushed a hand through her hair quickly, a nervous habit that she shared with her brother. She knew that she had to make the most of the day she was spending at Imperial, a day that Freddie had specifically said he’d be there. She hadn’t seen him for a few weeks, and he seemed to be acting strangely: he was withdrawn whenever she tried to phone him, or wouldn’t answer her calls at all; he avoided her the time that she tried to go and see him in Covent Garden, holding onto his boyfriend tightly as they ducked into the crowd together.

 

She stood outside the practice room, listening to the murmur of male voices inside. She hoped she’d found the right room, that the people in there wouldn’t think she was totally crazy if this all ended up being a terrible idea. She pushed the door open slowly, scanning over the three men sat before her; there was no fourth, no Freddie. There was one with long blonde hair, one with darker, wavy hair, and the last had tight ringlets.

 

Ringlets, she remembered Freddie mentioning. Brian.

 

“Hi.” She started nervously, not encouraged by the complete look of bewilderment on their faces. “I’m Kash Bulsara.”

 

“Okay?” The blonde man responded, glancing over her quickly. “Can I help you?”

 

Kash felt the same confusion. They didn’t recognise the surname. “I’m Farrokh’s sister.” She added, hoping that it would help build a connection to them. She always reverted to using Freddie’s full name when she was talking to someone she didn’t know; it was always what everyone had known him as. She had never thought that people wouldn’t recognise the name.

 

“Farrokh?” Brian responded, placing his guitar down on the floor slowly. “We don’t know anyone called Farrokh.” He glanced over her, noticing how she was wringing her hands nervously. “Are you okay?”

 

“You don’t know Farrokh.”  She echoed. She stumbled over her words, trying to decide if this was a lost cause. “Freddie! I’m Freddie’s sister, Freddie-”

 

“Mercury?” The dark hair man supplied, suddenly looking more interested in the situation. 

 

“Freddie Mercury.” Kash almost laughed at her brother’s choice of name. “Yeah. I’m Freddie Mercury’s sister. I didn’t know that that’s what he goes by here.” She smiled shyly.

 

Brian nodded. “Is everything okay with Freddie?” He checked. “He’s late for practice.”

 

“I don’t know.” Kash sighed. “I was hoping that you knew. He’s been acting strangely recently, he won’t take my calls. I’m worried about him.” She told them.

 

Roger stood up and came over to her. “It’s his prick of a boyfriend.” His voice sounded far too confident; it made Kash’s heart leap into her throat.

 

“Roger!” The dark haired man chastised him. “We’ve noticed it too.” He said after a pause as Kash sat in Freddie’s usual seat. “By the way, I’m John. Blondie over there is Roger and that’s Brian.”

 

Roger sat down in his own seat. “I’ve been telling you for weeks that it’s Paul.” He looked over at Kash. “Ever since he moved in they’ve been weird.”

 

“I thought that, too.” Kash said; Brian and John both looked over at her. “When I saw him last, he talked about a fight they’d had. Said that Paul had bumped him into the wall.” She picked at her nails nervously. “He said that he had a bruise across his back from it.”

 

“Neither of you are biology students, so let me summarise.” Roger looked at the other men. “You don’t get bruises unless a significant amount of force is applied.” He glanced back over at Kash. “I’ve been trying to convince them that there’s something up with Paul, but they won’t believe me.”

 

Kash bit at her thumbnail. “He’s just being so- so withdrawn, at the moment. It’s so unlike Freddie.”

 

John frowned and leaned in closer. “What do you mean?” He asked.

 

“Every time he’s on the phone, it’s like I’m getting the same automatic replies. It’s like he’s got a phrasebook of things that he’s allowed to say and things that’ll get him in trouble.” She sighed. “It’s like there’s someone always hanging over his shoulder, even when there isn’t.” 

 

“Paul.” Brian said quietly. “I guess- I just assumed that Freddie was one of those people that’s awful at talking on the phone.”

 

Kash looked over at Roger when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go and have a look for him, yeah?” His voice was soft, comforting; Kash felt soothed. “I’ve been wanting to go and check on them for a while.”

 

The journey there was a quiet walk, all four communally nervous about what they’d come to find. Kash assumed the worst, assumed they’d find a quiet house, empty of occupants. Roger assumed they’d find shouting, arguments. Brian assumed they’d find Freddie, living out his life in a daze. John tried not to assume anything.

 

Roger went up to the door and knocked firmly. The house was resolutely quiet, but it seemed to ring with a nervous energy that he found unsettling. It was the perfect London home, fenced with iron, all big bricks and old shutters at the windows. It was so quietly artistic, the perfect residence for a dancer, the high ceilings and polished floors seeming to mimic his existence. Brian had always been jealous of the reverb, the echoes that sounded back so beautifully whenever music was played in one of the big rooms.

 

The knock echoed down the hall, and returned silence.

 

“He has to be home.” John said reasonably. “He’s not due to be at school, he knows that he has rehearsals with us.”

 

Roger looked over at Kash. “Look through the window.” He told her. “See if you can see anything inside.”

 

Kash stepped carefully through the garden and glanced into the lounge, the first glimpse that she’d had of her brother’s new home. It was divine, so carefully crafted to be a space for him to enjoy. The grand piano sat in the window, one sofa was covered by a silk blanket, another by one of crushed velvet. She’d always associated those textures with Freddie.

 

When he was sixteen, he’d bought himself a pair of silk pajamas. She remembered the arguments, the tears, the way that she hid from the voices that seemed to get impossibly louder and louder. It was an indulgence, she remembered, and they didn’t indulge. 

 

She remembered seeing Freddie looking at himself in the mirror, admiring the sheen of the fabric against the smoothness of his skin. He looked vibrant in the dimness, his eyes catching the light and making him look like he was sparkling. 

 

She remembered the hesitant way that she’d touched the silk one evening when she thought he was out. She remembered the way he watched her, curious in the way that she ran her fingers back and forth over the material. It felt so exotic, a world away from their humble life. She remembered the way that he’d remembered. She remembered opening her own pair on Christmas morning.

 

She caught sight of those pajamas again, the ones he’d worn years ago now, in a crumpled heap on the floor. 

 

Her gut wrenched when she realised that he was still wearing them.


	8. Dust to Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concussion (noun): 1. temporary unconsciousness or confusion and other symptoms caused by a blow on the head. 2. a violent shock as from a heavy blow.

Freddie came around to knocking at the door of the house. He cracked one eye open slowly, taking his time to notice the way that the sunlight was painting the back wall of the lounge. It gilded everything in such a regal colour; the house felt so much warmer than it had before, so much calmer. He belatedly realised that he was lying on the floor, the cold of the polished wood biting through to his very bones. He made no attempt to move, letting himself lie there for what felt like a long period of time. 

The ringing in his ears was intense, reverberating off the pain in his head. He recognised that he’d had some form of fall, that he’d hit his head off the table: he touched it tenderly, felt the pain shoot through his head. He groaned a little, curled in on himself, felt a similar pain bloom through the ribs of his back. 

He tried to retrace his steps, tried to remember how he’d gotten there. He could only remember the sensation of falling before he blacked out. A worry twisted in his gut, a concern that he had some kind of condition that had never affected him before: people didn’t just fall randomly, there was always a reason.

He stretched his hand out, examining each finger in turn. He had finger marks on his wrist, his knuckles were bruised as though he’d been struggling, but he couldn’t make sense of it; he’d been home alone, he was certain. He could remember Paul leaving for work at the studio that morning.

He lay there, unmoving, staring at the legs of the sofa in front of him. Right now, he didn’t want to think about moving unless he had to. He felt fogged out, though he couldn’t tell if it was just the pain that was overwhelming his senses. He watched the dust as it swirled in the sunlight, each little piece looking like a fragment of a gemstone. Rubies had always been his favourite, but these were more opalescent, looking strangely beautiful in the morning light.

Slowly, slowly, he dragged himself so that he was sitting upright, his whole world spinning just from the smallest of movements. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the nausea that punched at his stomach: he’d always been terrible at dealing with pain. He brought his hand up to touch his head again; it felt as though there were two hands squeezing it, the pressure almost too much for his skull to handle.

He opened his eyes again when there was another knock at the door: he didn’t quite make the connection that he needed to go and answer it. He looked at where he’d been laying, seeing a few droplets of blood over the floor, and recognised that he’d cut his head when he’d hit it against the table. That same jolt of worry cut through him again, he felt it tighten in his chest.

He tried to stand up, but he couldn’t quite seem to make his body move in the way he wanted it to. His limbs felt too heavy, as though his blood had been replaced by lead. He was lethargic, slow, all of the qualities that he so despised in movement. He gave up trying and instead closed his eyes again, feeling more exhausted now than he had in a long time; he was shivering, he suddenly recognised, the sun had gone behind a cloud and stolen its warmth away from him.

He heard the jiggle of a key in the lock - the spare one, he recognised, which was cut badly, didn’t fit quite right. The echo of the footsteps down the long corridor reverberated around his brain, the noises too loud in the otherwise silence of the room. 

Gentle fingers tilted his chin carefully, encouraging him to look up, to hold his head up properly, to hold the dead weight above his shoulders. He was thankful for them, thankful that it took some of the effort away from him. They were callused in a familiar way, rough against his skin.

He recognised someone calling his name in the distance. “Freddie?” They asked, carefully kneeling in front of him. “Freddie, can you hear me? Can you look at me?” The voice was soft, caring, gentle.

“I- I-” Freddie struggled with his words, trying to break out of the haze in his mind. “Can hear you.” He said, but his voice was slurred; it felt as though his tongue was too heavy to lift. “Can’t see you.” He murmured.

“Freddie.” Another voice came from beside him. “I need you to open your eyes, okay?” This voice was firmer; he wanted to flinch away instinctively. Instead, he opened his eyes slowly, the weight of his eyelids feeling like such an effort to lift. In front of him, still cradling his chin, was Roger; beside him, a hand on his arm, was Brian.

“Good job.” Roger said softly. “We’re going to get you up on the sofa, okay?” Suddenly, there were three sets of strong hands on his arms, helping to lift his weight into the soft cushions. He let them rearrange him as though he were a child, watching them with a detached fascination.

He tilted his head slowly to the side and saw Kash sitting there; she took his hand, and he gripped it tight. “You’re here.” He said quietly.

“Of course I am.” She said softly. “You’ve had a bit of a bump to the head, Freddie, you’ll be okay.” She promised, arranging herself so that she was lying against his side. A soft noise erupted from his lips as the pain in his ribs flared up again. John frowned upon hearing it and leaned closer, helping to pad the space between the siblings with a plush cushion.

“What happened, Fred?” Freddie barely recognised the question, even less so that it was directed at him. He was comforted by the weight of his sister against the side, by the familiar murmurings of John and Brian next to him. He didn’t pick up on the worry in their voices. “Freddie?” Roger said, a little louder this time, dragging Freddie back into the present. “What happened?”

Freddie looked up, caught John’s gaze, and looked away instinctively. The quick movement of his head made his world spin again; fingers grabbed the cushions of the sofa as the familiar nausea lurched in his stomach. “Woah, slow down.” John said, resting a hand on Freddie’s arm. “Calm down. Deep breaths.” He glanced over at Brian. “Can you grab some water?”

Kash rubbed a soothing pattern over the back of his hand as his stomach settled again. He knew that it had to be a bad injury if it threatened to make him sick.

He drank the water that Brian brought carefully, it seeming to provide him with some clarity of mind. “I fell.” He said, looking over at Roger, finally providing an answer to his question. “I don’t remember why.” He was being completely honest, but Kash and Roger still exchanged a look. “I was about to get ready, and then- I don’t remember.”

Kash nodded. “Were you on your own?” She asked quietly, squeezing his hand. “Was Paul here?”

“He went.” Freddie said softly. “I can’t remember when. Maybe afterwards.” He frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense- he wouldn’t just leave me.” He justified.

A violent flash of an image came through his mind, a snippet of a motion picture, the technicolor grotesque and exaggerated. A handprint burned across his cheek, the shock like electric to his skin, like a live wire to his brain. The colour bloomed across his skin, a hideous scarlet that didn’t compliment the blush of his outfit. He could hear shouting in a distant corner of his brain, could still feel the tightness in his gut that came with an argument.

He didn’t want to tell them about it.

“He must’ve gone before.”


	9. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you need to know that someone cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning - there is graphic violence in the italicised bit at the start of this chapter - please don't read this part if it will upset you! Skip to the non-italics, which is the continuation of the story.

_ The slap burned across his cheek. Freddie looked up, incredulous, staring at Paul. A heat rose in the back of his throat, burning the insides of his nose, the familiar feeling that he was on the edge of tears. “You can’t control me.” His voice was thick, cracking though he tried to sound firm. “They’re my friends, I want to spend time with them.” He was barely whispering as a tear crawled down his cheek, staining the skin underneath. _

 

_ “You’re not listening!” Paul shouted, hands balling into fists. He approached Freddie, watching as he stepped back a little, an arm wrapping around his front protectively. “After everything I’ve done for you, I ask you to do one thing, and you won’t fucking listen to me!” Freddie backed against the wall, feeling so trapped, so stifled. _

 

_ “I don’t understand what the problem is!” Freddie’s voice was tinged with fear. “It’s only a fucking band practice!” His voice was more desperate than angry; he needed to get out of the situation, and quickly, before something went wrong. _

 

_ “Don’t talk back to me.” Paul threatened.  _

 

_ “Why?” Freddie made his way towards the door of the lounge. “Because then you’ll lose control?” His voice came out as a taunt, and his gut twisted; he knew he’d made a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. _

 

_ The punch hurt more than the slap, an awful dull ache that spread through his eye and into his brain. It was all-encompassing, all he could think about: his hands flew to cover his face, trying to protect himself. He’d been hit before, but never like this. _

 

_ Paul grabbed his hair and pulled hard before pushing him into the living room. The pain was overwhelming, and a jagged sob left Freddie’s throat. “I’m sorry-” He croaked, but his voice was so quiet, barely a whisper. Another fist connected with his stomach, making him stumble blindly. He tripped over an end-table and fell backwards; his head connected harshly with the coffee table and his world went fuzzy. _

 

_ He tried to catch his breath as he lay on the floor: momentarily, he believed that it would be over.  _

 

_ He cried out as a foot connected with his ribs, in the same place that the last bruise had recently healed. “I’m sorry-” His voice was louder, pained, he couldn’t catch his breath, he was desperate. “I’m sorry!” He cried as the kicks kept coming, each one jolting through his body. He tried to roll over, to protect his back and his spine, but the kicks came to his front instead. They came to his stomach, his groin, his face, until he was sobbing helplessly, crying out for it to stop. _

 

_ The world went black as a glass shattered next to him. _

 

The boys were in the kitchen when Kash started shouting for them; she shook Freddie’s shoulder, trying not to worry herself. “He’s passed out again.” She told them, carefully tapping his cheek. The skin was so hot underneath her fingers, as though he were running a fever. “He’s really warm.” She said, a quiet note to herself, but Roger heard. 

 

“Get his shirt off.” He said, watching as John and Kash worked together. Everyone went quiet when they saw his skin; the bruise on his back was an ugly green colour, one on his stomach was a dark purple. The rest of his skin was red-raw, as though it had just been injured and would bruise quickly. 

 

“Fuck.” Roger muttered. “I’m not fucking leaving him here. You don’t look like that if you just fall. He’s either sick, or Paul is more of an asshole than I thought.” He looked over at Brian, who eventually nodded.

 

“If you share with me, we’ve got a spare room.” Brian suggested, and Roger nodded. He sat down beside Freddie, took one of his hands carefully.

 

“I can’t leave him here.” His voice was quieter, cracked in the middle. “He’s my best friend.” Kash leaned over and put her hand over theirs. “I’ll come too. You must have a sofa.” She offered a sad smile. 

 

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” John said simply and stood from the sofa. “I’m going to grab his things.”

 

He made up a bag of everything important that he could find, tried to remember his favourite outfits for rehearsal. He threw Brian his ballet bag and himself picked up a bag of clothes, of toiletries. 

 

Freddie woke shirtless in an unfamiliar bed, and felt panic seize at his throat. The first stage of bruising was beginning on his body, his skin blotched with brown, red and purple. His ribs ached, his head ached, his mouth was dry and tasted terrible. He sat up carefully, touching his forehead carefully. “Hello?” He called out; his voice was hoarse, barely there, a whisper into the cosmos. “Hello?” He tried again, panicking at how quiet he sounded. He could never get anyone’s attention like this.

 

He stood up, his legs shaky below him: his blood sugar was low, and he couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten. He wasn’t even sure what day it was. He found a robe on the door and walked into the next room, dismayed to find an empty bathroom. His head spun and he found himself clutching onto the side for support, his eyes squeezed closed tightly as his legs threatened to give out beneath him.

 

“Freddie?” Kash asked quietly, standing in the bathroom door. She’d heard footsteps, and though it was the middle of the night, she couldn’t deny that she’d stayed awake to listen to them. She came forward when she saw him, letting him lean on her carefully.

 

“Where am I?” Freddie’s eyes opened as the world slowly settled. He stood up straight slowly, taking in a deep breath. “Why am I so fucking dizzy?”

 

“We’re at Brian and Roger’s.” Kash said softly. “You’ve been asleep in Roger’s room.” She took him carefully back into the room, and then back out onto the landing. “You had a concussion, Freddie, that’s why you’re dizzy.”

 

He let himself be led down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Can I get some water?” He asked as Kash sat him down on the table. 

 

“Of course.” She smiled, grabbing a glass and filling it up before handing it to Freddie. “Go slow. I don’t want you to be sick.” She said softly, leaning against the counter opposite him.

 

“Why are we here?” Freddie asked her, taking small sips of water. “Why are you here? You don’t even know who Roger or Brian are.”

 

“I found them at Imperial, and we got chatting.” She elected to leave out the detail. “They were worried that you didn’t show up for rehearsal, so I went with them to find you.” She explained. “We found you at Paul’s. It looked like you had some kind of fall.” She tried not to look at Freddie’s torso; the bruises made her feel ill. “He wasn’t around, and we wanted to check that you were alright, so we brought you here.”

 

Freddie nodded, holding his glass tightly. It was easier to remember that it most definitely was not a fall. “Where are the others?” He asked.

 

“Roger is in Brian’s room, with Brian. John’s on the sofa.” She explained and watched his brow furrow.

 

“Where are you supposed to sleep?” He questioned, taking note of the time on the clock. He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed for getting everyone into this situation.

 

“I was supposed to be on the sofa, but I let John have it when I realised that I wasn’t going to be sleeping much.” She glanced over at him. “I was worried about you.” She admitted, rubbing the back of her neck lightly.

 

Freddie smiled, at last, and the sight warmed Kash inside. “Why don’t you share Roger’s bed with me?” He asked quietly. “It’s plenty big enough for two. It’ll be like when we were kids and you had nightmares. You liked my room because you liked the glow in the dark stars.” He even laughed a little, though it hurt his chest.

 

“I liked your room because you knew the right things to say.” Kash smiled. “And you still do.”

 

She couldn’t fall asleep until she’d seen that Freddie was asleep. That night, she managed not to dream of her brother in a hospital bed.


	10. Mayerling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning is often better than the night that came before it.

Freddie had always been an early riser since moving to London. The mornings always seemed to be so sunny, while the weather grew overcast later in the day. He had always loved the sunshine, even the cold sunshine of an English morning; it had a certain energy that brightened his day. It reminded him of days in the sunshine as a child, the warmth beating down on his face while he danced outside, whilst he swam with friends, whilst he travelled from one place to another.

 

September was warm this year, settling somewhere around the mid-twenties once the day was into its full swing. Freddie loved to stretch in the mornings, bathing in the early sunshine, before it became too hot to practice comfortably. When he had woken up, he’d checked over Kash quickly; sleeping soundlessly, curled around one of the spare pillows. He had carefully made his way over to the front balcony, drawing the curtain back ever-so-slightly to let himself out. 

 

Kensington was so quiet when it was so early, but the sun was there as his companion. He cleared a space, trying to make as little sound as possible so that he wouldn’t wake anybody. This was one of his quiet times, the times that he had completely to himself, where he could look after himself without anybody else intruding. 

 

He bent over, chest to his thighs, letting the movement roll through each sore muscle of his back. The aching of his ribs had diminished, though the flesh was still sore. It was bruised now, each toe of Paul’s boot turning a different shade of red; wine, mahogany, blush, scarlet, garnet, ruby, crimson.

 

Carefully, so carefully, he took himself through his morning stretches. The movements were so fluid, letting him carefully work the stiffness out of his angry muscles. It ached whenever he focused on his back, but he didn’t let it throw him off; holding himself in that position made the pain normal, and he felt it diminish as he came back to centre. 

 

Freddie closed his eyes as the sun warmed his skin, painted pretty swirls of warm colours on the inside of his eyelids. He breathed in the fresh air slowly, trying to breathe out all of the pain and fear that he’d been feeling, trying to cleanse himself for the new day. Life had to continue, he still had to practice, still got to feel his rush of adrenaline when he performed. No matter what, he’d promised himself, he wouldn’t let his relationships, friendships, get in the way with his dreams.

 

Kash watched his shadow on the bedroom curtains as he stretched slowly; she was lost in the grace of the movements, how fluid everything seemed, despite the pain that she knew he must be feeling. He was so strong, and she envied him; she envied how he could be so resolute in the face of such disaster. He seemed less concerned about it than her, and she hated that: she wanted him to be worried, to be inspired to get away from there. She knew that he’d go back to how it was, honouring the security and opportunity that such a regiment afforded him. She couldn’t convince him to do otherwise, nor could Roger or Brian or John.

 

He was trapped by a smooth voice, by the promises of security and stability, something that they couldn’t promise him. He was trapped by harsh words and harsher hands, the knowledge that the threat was ever present.

 

Kash got out of bed slowly, combed her fingers through her hair, and went to the balcony door. Freddie was sat still, face to the sun, eyes closed and legs crossed. She smiled at the sight. “I’m making tea.” She said softly. “Do you want one?”

 

His eyes opened slowly and he glanced over at her. “I’d love one.” He smiled back. “Thank you.” His voice was quiet, but it wasn’t hoarse any longer; sleep had done his body the world of good in starting to heal.

 

When she came back, he was murmuring to himself, head bowed down towards his knees. She could see the smudge of a bruise from underneath the hemline of his shirt. Kash recognised the words, broken bits of Parsi, from what their family had recited together for those in need. Freddie’s relationship with their religion had always been troubled, but he’d always found security in the traditions, in the familiarity of what they had to recite before bed.

 

She waited until he’d finished to sit beside him, and handed him the mug. “Here you go,  _ aziz-am _ .” She saw his face light up at the name. It was what Jer had always called him. “I got you chamomile. That was always your favourite.”

 

Freddie smiled at her and moved over to let her have more room. “It still is.” He said quietly. “Thank you,  _ joonam _ .” He said playfully. 

 

“What are you doing today?” She asked him, sitting cross-legged with her own tea. “Are you going to ballet?”

 

Freddie nodded, brushing his hair from his face. “It’s the last day for auditions.” He told her. “I won’t get this role, but I want to try anyway.” His smile was bright, but he covered his mouth with his hand.

 

“What’s the role?” Kash asked, sensing his excitement. “Have you been keeping secrets from me?” She giggled, sipping her tea. 

 

“I didn’t want you to get too excited.” His cheeks pinkened. “We’re doing four performances of Mayerling. I’m trying out for Rudolf.” He admitted.

 

Kash grinned and leaned over, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “Can I come and watch when you get it?” She asked playfully. Freddie laughed and took another sip from his mug.

 

“Of course you can. I’ll need someone to help me do makeup that makes me look totally deranged.” He chuckled. “No, I might get an understudy if I’m lucky. There’s no way that they’ll give the role to someone at the school when they can give it to a principle of the company.”

 

John came up to the balcony doors, pushing the curtains aside and looking at the two of them with a smile. “Brian’s made breakfast. Thought you’d probably be hungry, Fred.”

 

Freddie beamed at him, standing up and then helping Kash up. “I’m starving, darling, and I’ve got a long day ahead of me. Sounds perfect.”

 

Roger and Brian both offered greetings as the three of them walked into the kitchen. “Are you going to school this morning, Fred?” Roger asked, taking note of the harlequin-diamond printed leggings and the t-shirt he wore. 

 

“I can never miss a day, my dear.” Freddie smiled, taking the plate that Brian offered him. “Thank you.” He said graciously, sitting at the head of the big table at the side of the room as everybody settled down with their own meals. 

 

Once they had all finished eating, Freddie took a glance at the clock and quickly stood up. He filled his water bottle at the sink, ignoring what he was sure were looks at the bruises on his arms from the others, and then turned to them. “I have to go.” He explained. “My warm-up class starts at nine.”

 

John stood up with him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got a 9am. I’ll drive you.” He offered. “You’re only two streets away.”

 

Freddie smiled at the gesture and grabbed his ballet bag from its place in the hallway. “Thank you.” He smiled widely. 

 

The drive was spent with companionable small talk, both men staying away from the subject of the night before. As Freddie went to get out the car, John caught his wrist carefully. “If you need to stop, I’ll be right here.” He promised. “Come and find me, I’ll get you home. Look after yourself.”

 

Freddie just winked at him as he left the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so my Persian is obviously horrible (and I don't even know if Freddie spoke it but it's a gorgeous language so I went with it): aziz-am means "my dear" and joonam means "my soul". Also we're going to ignore that Mayerling was first performed in 1978 because it's my favourite ballet and one of the most technically difficult for men and I want to see Freddie flourish in life.


	11. White Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stranger is handsome, dark hair, dark eyes, an accent so thick that Freddie could drown in it. He just wants to feel loved for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never actually planned this bit so it's a little spur-of-the-moment! Also two chapters in one day? I have so much inspiration for this fic currently haha!

Freddie knew that he was a trophy, but he couldn’t deny that he loved it. He loved to be paraded around, an arm tight around his waist, being shown off to each and every person around the bar. Paul conversed easily, Freddie stood and smiled, occasionally commenting in the light and airy voice that he reserved for these occasions. He felt so beautiful, so wanted in these moments, and he didn’t want to lose them just because of an ill-timed conversation.

 

That night, his hair was soft around his shoulders, his lips tinted just slightly with the red that he used for his stage makeup. His trousers were tight, showing off the sculpted curves of his body; the t-shirt hung loosely from his collarbones, granting him an ethereal quality. He loved having the attention of others on him: somewhere inside him, he took a sick pride from proving to Paul that there were others that wanted him too.

 

He danced so beautifully, a mess of swaying hips and hands in his hair, giggling and wine-drunk. Paul was never far away, he knew, and he delighted in being the centre of his attention even while he tried to hold conversations with old friends. Occasionally he would disappear with somebody, but Freddie was never perturbed; it was easy enough to occupy his attention with a handsome stranger.

 

He felt a hand slide over his waist as he danced and turned his head, glancing at the man beside him with a bright smile. “Hey, gorgeous.” The voice was friendly, and Freddie’s heart fluttered a little. He turned towards him, taking in the way he was built: a world away from Paul, strong arms and shoulders, making Freddie feel so small in comparison. “Can I buy you a drink?” He offered, the Irish accent so familiar to Freddie.

 

“Of course, darling.” He wrapped his arms around the neck of the stranger, pulling him in a little closer. The man moved with him, swaying to stay close as Freddie lost himself to the beat of the music again.

 

“What can I get you?” He asked, his forehead resting against Freddie’s. Those strong arms were tight around his waist, protecting him and shielding him from the outside world. Freddie smiled widely at him, eyes flickering to his lips; he wondered what it would feel like to kiss him.

 

“White wine.” Freddie’s voice was soft, barely a whisper; it didn’t need to be louder. “But make it a good one, my dear, else I’ll be very disappointed.” He was teasing now, one hand curling up to run fingers through soft, thick hair.

 

Freddie giggled as he was half-dragged to the bar, the fingers around his wrist gentle yet insistent. He’d long ago learned to tell good from bad. He let himself be pressed against the counter, his hands sliding up and over the stranger’s chest, his neck, cheeks and then back into his hair again. He heard the low rumble of his drink being ordered, watched the way his Adam’s apple moved as he talked: he wanted to press a kiss to it and then lower, lower.

 

Freddie hiccuped as the man glanced back down at him, grinning widely. “Can I kiss you?” He asked, and Freddie was initially taken aback by the question. Men at Heaven were so insistent, touched and grabbed and asked permission later in the night. He responded by moving one of his arms to wrap around the back of his neck, and then he kissed him.

 

The kiss was naughty, and Freddie knew it, but there was something between the two bottles of wine and the seemingly endless mundanity of life that had him craving genuine, gentle touch from another person. When he wasn’t a trophy, Freddie was a burden to Paul, and he knew it: he knew that the words seemed to be less kind with each day that passed, that the occasional slap had turned into an almost-daily occurrence, erupting over the most minor of things. Laundry folded wrong, too short answers to questions, playing the piano at the wrong time, even getting out of bed at the wrong time. He hadn’t been concussed again, and he could at least be thankful for that, but he was beginning to hate living his everyday life.

 

The stranger’s lips were soft against his, none of the urgency that Freddie had been expecting. They had a comforting warmth, one that seemed to thaw through his cold skin. He tasted different to how Freddie had imagined, but he tasted right, somehow: he had expected saccharine sweetness, the perfect partner to a situation that was too idyllic for even his imagination. What he got instead was red wine against his lips, red wine and cigarettes and the hint of an overbearing mint from previous chewing gum. It was so human, and Freddie clung onto it, pulled him in closer.

 

The stranger let his hands clutch onto Freddie’s waist: he was so tiny, but his muscles were so firm under his touch. He could feel firm swellings, as though he were bruised, and some places were warmer than others. He pulled away uncertainly, letting his hands hold that waist so tightly. “Are you okay?” He asked, his forehead still pressed against Freddie’s, looking into the dark eyes below him.

 

“Shut up and kiss me.” Freddie murmured, bringing him back into that toxic embrace. He was as enticing as a siren, but the stranger knew by now that something was off, that he was too desperate for this. He let himself indulge for a little while longer, his hands firm but careful on his body.

 

“I’m serious.” He murmured as he pulled away from the kiss again. “Do you need someone to get you out of here?” Freddie’s eyes met his again, seeming to express so many emotions at once. The stranger wondered if he was trying to escape something in his mind.

 

“I’m fine.” Freddie whispered, his voice playful as he trailed a hand down the stranger’s front. “I’m an athlete, darling, don’t worry about me. I’m not going to break.” He purred, and that seemed to satisfy him. The stranger smiled as he looked over Freddie again.

 

“You’re beautiful.” He muttered, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Freddie’s throat. “How come you’re here all on your own, hm?” He asked softly, trailing kisses back up to his lips.

 

“I’m looking for somebody that looks a little something like you.” Freddie grinned and connected their lips again. He was so lost in the fantasy now, the one where he had the penthouse in Earl’s Court that he could take handsome men from Heaven back to, where he was a stone’s throw from the Opera House, where he had the freedom to do anything and everything he wanted to. When he closed his eyes, he could practically smell the incense that he would burn in his bedroom.

 

The stranger laughed against his lips and one hand came up to his face, cupping it carefully as they kissed. Freddie felt so special at that moment, as though he’d been waiting this long for somebody to finally pay him the attention that he so desperately craved.

 

The moment was ruined by a hand on his shoulder. He broke away from the kiss harshly and glanced up at Paul; he was completely red-handed, lips kissed red, cheeks flushed, breathing just a little heavier than normal. Paul didn’t look much better, if the marks on his collar-bones were anything to go by, but Freddie chose to ignore it.

 

Paul fixed the stranger with a harsh look, and he held his hands up apologetically, glancing over Freddie. He seemed smaller in the presence of the third figure. “Sorry, didn’t know you were spoken for.” He muttered, grabbing his drink from the bar and moving back towards the crowd quickly.

 

Freddie watched all his romantic visions drift from before his eyes, and then he looked up at his harsh reality; Paul.

 

The stranger looked over when he heard a sound cut through the air, a sound of violence and anger. Freddie clutched his cheek, his jaw set against the sudden onslaught of emotions; hurt, confusion, anger, overwhelm. The one that beat the strongest was that of disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it’s kind of late and I’m tired but I’m really curious so if you see this then comment below any assumptions you have about me (name, what you think I look like, where you think I’m from etc) because I realised you guys don’t know anything about me and I’m really curious haha


	12. Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie has to learn his lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, if you're skipping the graphic violence, you better skip this whole chapter. If you missed the second chapter that I uploaded yesterday (two in one day? go me) then make sure you read that first to understand why this is happening!

At least it wasn’t concussion, this time.

 

A sob cracked at the back of Freddie’s throat as he curled in on himself, pressing his face against the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. He grabbed onto his hair, covered his face with both of his arms; his shoulder shook as he cried himself hoarse.

 

Last time this had happened, he remembered Roger’s kind fingers holding his chin up, Kash gripping his hand, Brian making him sip a little water.

 

_Paul grabbed him by the hair, pulled him into the kitchen and slammed him against the counter._

 

Another sob rose up through his chest; tears slipped down his cheeks as he tried so hard to stifle any noise. He was hurt, his mouth tasted of blood, one side of his skull felt like it had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, his hand ached as though it had been crushed.

 

_He smacked Freddie’s head back against the kitchen cupboard: the pain felt like a knife through his skull._

 

Freddie felt so helpless. He’d pushed his friends away; they were so angry with him, Paul had told him, they’d kicked him out the band for missing so many rehearsals. They had a new singer, one so much better than him, and they had a new record deal.

 

Kash hadn’t even bothered to come and see him in over a month. Her life was more exciting now, the life of a London student, a life that he craved.

 

_The punch hit his nose. Blood trickled down over his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to pretend it wasn’t real._

 

Freddie squeezed his eyes shut again, tears still trickling from underneath them: his face was contorted into one of such pain. He wasn’t sure that he could stand.

 

They hated him. No one was going to come and find him this time.

 

_The hand around Freddie’s throat was tight, cutting off his breathing. He was panicking._

 

Freddie wished that he’d told the truth to the man in the bar.

 

_Freddie’s hand grabbed at the one around his neck, trying desperately to prize fingers away as he kicked at Paul._

 

There was no point in telling the truth. He had nowhere to go, even if he did choose to leave.

 

_A hand smashed his back down against the counter, pinning it there._

 

He couldn’t leave.

 

_Freddie’s head was pressed against the glass window, looking down at the road outside._

 

He couldn’t leave.

 

_“If you go, I’ll find you.” A voice breathed in his ear. The hand in his hair was tight, too tight, wrenching hairs from his skull. “And I’ll throw you down there.”_

 

He couldn’t leave.

 

_He struggled desperately, trying to release himself. Paul threw him down on the floor again, watching as he curled instinctively._

 

Freddie sobbed until he couldn’t cry anymore, until he’d released every last bit of fear, disappointment, hate, in his body.

 

_“Get up.”_

 

He let his fingers uncurl from his hair. He didn’t want to hurt anymore.

 

_Freddie got up slowly, mechanically, somewhere between a haunting robot and a beautiful doll. Paul wanted to put him in a music box, poised on demi-pointe, twirling for everybody to see._

 

He slowly wiped his eyes, looking up to see the moon through the window. Dawn would be breaking soon.

 

_“Go into the kitchen.”_

 

He wiped away the blood that was still trickling down his face, slow and steady like a metronome.

 

_Freddie stood motionless._

 

He rolled over, lay on his back for a while, until he was breathing steadily again.

 

_“I said, go into the kitchen.”_

 

He stood up slowly, clutching onto the kitchen counter.

 

_“Can’t you hear me, bitch? Or are you trying to prove that you’re completely worthless to me?”_

 

He made his way blindly down the corridor, into the bathroom, and shut the door.

 

_Freddie was on the floor again._

 

He sunk down slowly, sitting with his back to the door. He leaned up, twisted the lock, heard the clunk of his protection.

 

_It was the second time he’d smacked that part of his head._

 

Another sob rose in his throat, but he stifled it, shoved it down. He was done with crying now.

 

_The pain was excruciating._

 

He grabbed a cloth and wiped at his face.

 

_He wished it would all be over._

 

He winced as the cloth trailed over the open wound above his eyebrow.

 

_He wished that he would just pass out and never wake up._

 

Freddie bit his lip, his face creasing as another tear splashed down his cheek.

 

_He wished that Paul would kill him._

 

The tear stung when it hit his lip.

 

_He groaned as a foot connected with his ribs again. He got on his hands and knees helplessly, and tried to crawl to the kitchen._

 

He carefully cleaned the blood from his nose, from his split lip. Blood made him feel sick.

 

_Another foot kicked at his groin and he cried out, lurching forwards, falling on his face._

 

He put his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper.

 

_“Useless.”_

 

Freddie put on a big t-shirt, letting his body be lost in the fabric. He combed through his hair slowly, looking blankly at how much had been pulled out.

 

_He kicked at Freddie’s face; he’d stopped responding._

 

He leaned over, was sick in the toilet.

 

_He pressed his boot to Freddie’s throat; he didn’t struggle._

 

He drank from the tap, brushed his teeth, applied his moisturiser.

 

_He walked away._

 

Freddie carefully made it up the stairs to bed.

 

_Freddie cracked his eyes open slowly._

 

He looked over Paul slowly.

 

_A sob cracked at the back of Freddie’s throat._

 

An arm wrapped around his waist as he climbed in.

 

_At least it wasn’t concussion, this time._


	13. Cotton Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie doesn't remember being ill like this before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get these chapters up before I head off to London! Prepare yourselves for the next one (either out tonight or on Saturday) - that's the big one! Also, I hope you're getting major alarm bells from this.

Freddie giggled as he lounged on the sofa, glancing up at Paul adoringly. “C’mere.” He whined, pouting like a child, and held an arm out. “C’mon, baby.” He grinned as Paul leaned down and kissed him.

 

“What’ve you had to drink?” He asked against Freddie’s lips, kneeling in front of the sofa. “You’re acting like you’re smashed.” He laughed against Freddie’s lips as he pulled him in closer.

 

“I’m sober!” Freddie said, a faux-indignant tone to his voice. “I haven’t had anything. It’s a school night.” Although, as he thought about it, his limbs did have a certain lethargy to them; he felt heavy, tired, even though he’d had a rest day.

 

Paul tutted against his mouth, grinning as he crawled into his lap. “You’re all chilled out. I’m not used to it.”

 

Freddie laughed, cupping his cheeks to break away from the kiss momentarily, and yawned. “I’m just tired.” He said softly. “It’s been one hell of a week.” Paul chuckled at Freddie’s comment, leaning in to kiss him again.

 

Freddie felt fingers on the buttons of his shirt, and carefully covered Paul’s hand with one of his. “Not tonight, baby.” He smiled tiredly. “I’ll fall asleep on you.”

 

Paul kissed him a little harder, as though he were trying to change his mind. “You sure?” He asked, voice a little whiny; Freddie hated to let him down.

 

“I’ll make it up to you.” He promised, pressing a kiss to Paul’s lips. “I think I’m gonna head to bed, actually. I’m not feeling too good.”

 

Paul pressed a hand to his forehead, but he felt cool to the touch. “You just need a good night’s sleep.” He said softly. “You go on up. I’ll grab you some water.”

 

Freddie nodded; his head felt foggy suddenly. He walked into their bedroom carefully, managing to put some pajamas on before he crawled into bed. Paul brought him a glass, handing it to him with a sad smile. “I put some of that paracetamol liquid in there for you. Thought it would be easier to swallow than pills.”

 

Freddie offered quiet gratitude, gulping it down. He made a face at the bitter taste, but trusted it would make him feel better.

  
  


 

When he woke up, he realised he’d been sick. He groaned as he sat up; his breathing was a little laboured. His whole body felt numb. He belatedly realised that the house was silent, that he was on his own. Nothing felt quite right. 

 

He changed his pajamas quickly, washed out his mouth with water from the sink. His fingers tingled as though he’d been laying on them. His whole body felt heavy. He struggled to think straight; he wanted to cry.

 

He took himself back to bed and changed the covers. He lay back down, curled back up on himself, closed his eyes tightly. He waited for the morning.

  
  


 

Pain was the first thing that he noticed. The numbness of the night had subsided: his head ached, his chest ached, his thighs, ass and back burned. He rolled over, felt the pain ripple through his body, and groaned. He couldn’t go to school like this.

 

“Paul?” He called out; the bedroom door was slightly ajar, and he could hear movement from downstairs. “Darling?”

 

Paul came to the door, drying his hands on a tea-towel. “How are you doing, my love?” He asked softly. “You need any painkillers?” Freddie nodded, doing his best to push himself into a sitting position.

 

“That’d be good.” Freddie nodded, wincing at the pain in his thighs. 

 

Paul pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Poor thing. You must’ve gotten the flu or something.” He said softly. Freddie frowned, wondering how he knew about the aches. 

 

There was a banging on the door downstairs, and Freddie glanced up at Paul. “You should probably answer that. Sounds like someone important.” He smiled tiredly, laying back down again.

 

Paul nodded, headed to the door. He glanced through the spyhole, saw Kash and Roger, and decided it best to ignore the knock. He grabbed some painkillers and a glass of water, carrying them back to Freddie. “Here you go, my love.” He said softly.

 

Freddie glanced over him. “No one important?” He asked, hearing another knock. “Thank you, darling.” He swallowed the pills and gulped down the rest of the water. “I’m glad it’s not that paracetamol again. That made me feel all numb.”

 

Paul carefully brushed Freddie’s hair from his face. “That was the last of the bottle. It might’ve just been out of date.” He murmured apologetically. The door banged again. “Lie back down, my love. I think you need a lazy day.” He pressed a kiss to Freddie’s forehead. He closed the bedroom door and the door to the hallway, before finally opening the front door.

 

“You’re not welcome here.” Paul spat at the other two. “He’s got the flu. He needs to rest.”

 

Roger wasn’t buying it. “I haven’t seen him in months.” He crossed his arms. “You’re always saying he’s out, and now he’s too poorly. I’m not having it.”

 

Paul blocked the door with his arm, glaring at the both of them. “If you had any respect for him, you’d let him sleep. I’ve just got him settled. He’s been awake half the night.” He fixed his stare on Roger. “And keep your fucking voice down.”

 

Kash tried a different approach. “We’re just worried about him.” She said softly. “It sounds like he’s working himself into the ground.”

 

Paul frowned. “He’s doing just fine. It’s just part of being a professional.” He glanced over her quickly. “Not that you’d know.”

 

He closed the door tightly and looked up, seeing Freddie at the top of the stairs. “Who was it?” He asked tiredly.

 

“Just some travelling salesman.” He said dismissively. “Don’t let it worry you, baby. Let’s get you back to bed.”


	14. Muscle Twinges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night comes back to haunt him during the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge sexual assault trigger warning on this one!!

“Sweatpants?” Mary teased Freddie as they stood together at the barre. “I didn’t have you down as a sweatpants kind of guy.”

 

Freddie looked down at his legs, his thighs, and a jolt of nausea ran through him. “It was cold when I got dressed this morning.” He offered by way of reply. He was subdued today, Mary noticed. She leaned over and squeezed his hand lightly.

 

_ He woke up to a fiery pain spreading through his lower body, a pain that screamed that he’d been used again. _

 

He tried to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. It went against every part of his training, but he couldn’t look at himself today without wanting to cry. 

 

_ The panting against his neck was harsh as hips were shoved against his. _

 

He tried to lose himself in the fluidity of their barre practice, tried to forget about himself as he practiced long movements, so graceful, perfecting each little movement that they practiced so often. 

 

_ A voice groaned. _

 

He heard the faint murmur of praise coming from next to him as he let himself go. He wanted to get out of his own head. He arched up so beautifully, stretched himself into arabesque, toes pointed towards the heavens.

 

_ Freddie was motionless; he was in shock, panic tearing through his throat. The drugs weren’t working this time, something had gone wrong: there was none of the heaviness, dragging him back towards sleep, and none of the numbness. _

 

He closed his eyes as he turned halfway, repeating the motion through his other leg. Ballet was so gorgeous, somewhere that he felt so safe.

 

_ He hated himself; he couldn’t breathe; he was rooted to the spot by hands that pulled and pushed him wherever they wanted him. _

 

A muscle twinged in his thigh, and his lower lip trembled uncertainly.

 

_ The rhythm of his hips got faster, harder. Freddie wanted to scream in pain. _

 

He crushed the feeling as he helped to move the barre to the side, clearing the floor for centre practice.

 

_ He hated that he couldn’t move, that he didn’t throw him off, that he let himself be used like some kind of toy. _

 

They moved into turns and jumps; Freddie tried to ignore his dizziness, tried to prove to everybody why he’d gotten that scholarship.

 

_ As his hips shoved deeper, he nudged at that spot. _

 

Freddie felt like he couldn’t breathe.

 

_ He hated how his body responded, how it yielded to him. He wanted to claw his own skin off. _

 

He fell in the middle of a turn, his chest heaving, no longer just with the exertion of exercise. 

 

_ He squeezed his eyes shut, praying it was all some sick nightmare. _

 

He was crying, again.

 

_ The rhythm grew erratic, and Freddie wanted to scream. _

 

He curled in on himself, in the middle of the studio, hands clamped over his eyes.

 

_ Spent. Used. Ruined. _

 

He sobbed helplessly, his chest heaving with uneven breaths. He was shaking so badly.

 

_ I’m going to die. _

 

“I’m going to die-” Freddie gasped as Mary came over to him, pulling him into her arms straight away. She shushed him like he was a child, combed her fingers through his hair.

 

He clung to her arm, feeling how warm she was under his touch. “Freddie, Freddie-” She said softly. “Breathe, honey, c’mon. Breathe slowly for me. Deep breaths.” He could practically hear John saying the same words, over the top of her.

 

He wondered how many times he’d had to be coaxed out of this state.

 

He wondered how many times he’d been used.

 

“I’m going to die-” He repeated, the phrase like some kind of sick mantra. He couldn’t physically get enough air in his lungs.

 

“You’re not going to die, sweetheart, c’mon.” She urged him. “You’ve got to breathe for me, Freddie.” She demonstrated, and he copied.

 

The tightness in his lungs eased slightly, but he was still shaking. He let himself be moved to the edge of the studio, to lean against the wall. “You’re working too hard, Freddie. You’re stressing yourself out.” Mary said softly.

 

How could Freddie begin to explain what it was?

 

He was so embarrassed, so humiliated.

 

“Paul-” He started, but she shushed him gently, rubbed his back.

 

“I know, sweetheart, we’ll get you home.” She promised. “I’ll get you home safe to Paul. I think you could do with a little loving right now.” She hugged him quickly. “You can spend the whole day together, okay? Don’t worry about us. You can come back tomorrow, be refreshed.”

  
Freddie just nodded.


	15. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to be your own damn Prince Charming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE BIG ONE (p.s. no fics are going to be updated now until Saturday - sorry!)

Humiliated.

 

Freddie clenched his jaw as he powdered over his cheeks, applying the most dramatic stage makeup that he knew. He felt absolutely humiliated, hollow, used up and washed out.

 

He couldn’t believe that it had taken him so long to piece everything together. The bitter drink, the sickness, the numbness, the pain. It repeated, it repeated again and again until Freddie thought he was going to die.

 

When he’d seen the bottle in the bin, anger had flared through him.

 

It was so low, to drug somebody that you’re supposed to love.

 

His thighs still ached now, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to wait for a Prince Charming to come and save him from his tower.

 

He was going to take on the fucking dragon himself.

 

He carefully swept the lipstick over his mouth, bold and red. His eyes were dark, outlined in black kohl. His hair was freshly washed, fluffy to touch, hanging soft around his shoulders. He was wearing his softest satin top, tight jeans.

 

He looked fucking pretty, and he wouldn’t let himself think anything else.

 

He walked downstairs and grabbed his boots from by the door, pulling them on and lacing them quickly. He tried to move quietly, but he knew the inevitable was coming. He pulled the heavy fur coat on, knowing that he’d need it to fend off the cold of an autumn evening.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

 

Freddie turned, swallowed hard, stood up straight. He kept his chin up. “Out.”

 

Paul scoffed, crossing his arms. “You didn’t ask me.”

 

“I don’t have to.” Freddie felt so much suppressed anger burning in his throat. “I’m an adult.”

 

A smirk crossed Paul’s face. “Watch it, Freddie.”

 

Freddie met his eyes; he held his gaze. “Why?” Paul approached him, and he walked backwards until his back hit the front door.

 

“You know how this ends.” Paul placed his hands either side of Freddie, keeping him there.

 

“I’m not scared of you.” He replied, clenching his fists. “What’re you going to do to me, hm? Are you going to slap me? Punch me? Throw me through a window?” He let his head rest on the wood behind him. “Are you going to drag me from one fucking end of the house to the other by my hair until I do anything you say?”

 

Freddie pushed him hard, hands square on his chest, and watched as Paul stumbled backwards. “Do you know how many times I’ve cleaned my own blood off the floor? How many times I’ve come up with bullshit stories to cover up why I’m covered in bruises? Do you know how many fucking times I’ve cleaned my own wounds and put my own damn self to bed?”

 

Paul grabbed his collar, shoved him against the door. “Shut your fucking mouth.” He warned, but Freddie was in too deep now.

 

“Why?” He replied again. “Are you going to smash the mirror and hold a piece of glass to my neck?” Freddie looked over him darkly, grabbing onto his arm and twisting it suddenly.

 

Paul slammed him back against the door, face to the cold wood. “Are you going to drug me?” He taunted, fingers crawling up slowly, concealed by his body. The chain came off the door silently. “Going to convince me that I’m a poor poorly baby so that you can rape me in my sleep?”

 

“Don’t you fucking dare accuse me of that.” Paul spat, but Freddie could hear something of a tremor in his voice.

 

He smacked Freddie’s head off the wood, reopening the wound on his forehead, but he didn’t care. “How many times have you done that now?” Freddie was breathless. “Twelve times? Thirteen?” He choked out a laugh. “You think I’m so fucking naive that I don’t know what you’re doing. You think that you can get away with anything just because you’ve got me wound around your little fucking finger.”

 

He twisted around suddenly, jamming his boot into Paul’s groin as hard as he could. “It’s fun, isn’t it?” He jeered. “Every movement reminds you. You can’t walk properly. You hold the ache like a fucking albatross around your neck. You’re certain that everyone can see you hurting. You know that everyone can see that you’ve been fucking humiliated, used like a fucking sex doll and then thrown away when you’re finished.”

 

Paul punched him, as hard as he could, hitting Freddie’s mouth violently. Freddie spat blood back at him, straight into his face. “I’m not scared of you.” He repeated, fighting the urge to submit as another punch landed in the same place. He knew he could defuse this, but he didn’t want to.

 

Paul grabbed his throat, hand cutting off his airway as he gasped for breath. “I’ll kill you.” He murmured. Freddie grinned back at him, looking so unnerving.

 

He’d never expected to get out of this situation alive.

 

Paul let go as his vision was blacking out; Freddie coughed violently, sucking in his breath. “Fucking kill me, go ahead.” He leaned against the door as he gasped. “I’d rather die than stay with you.”

 

The hand came back around his throat, squeezing hard and tight, digging in with such malicious intent.

 

Freddie was frightened, his body kicking into overdrive; it was a lie that he wasn’t scared. He was so scared, so scared of dying, but he couldn’t live in a trance like this any longer.

 

He struggled, kicked, tore with weak hands, but it was to no avail.

  
  


He woke up on the floor of the hallway, the television still buzzing from the lounge. His neck was so sore, but Freddie barely noticed when he realised the chain on the door was still undone.

 

He grabbed the latch. He threw it open, and started to run.

 

He had no idea where he was going; he didn’t have the addresses of any friends any longer, couldn’t remember them from the foggy daze in the back of his head. He kept running and running, heard the shouting from behind him fade into nothing as he pounded the streets. He kept running long after he needed to, calling on every little inch of stamina in his body.

 

He leaned up against the wall, his chest heaving. He had no idea where he was, what he was doing. The drugs of the night before made it hard to think straight.

 

He was attracted to the sound of music, was drawn towards bright lights and crowds of people. He must know someone, or someone must otherwise recognise him.

 

His legs were shaking as he walked towards the club. He could’ve fallen asleep there, but he knew it was the ketamine; he wouldn’t let himself be overpowered again.

 

As soon as he walked through the door, he felt that it was the wrong place. Nobody there knew him, nobody was interested in helping him. They bumped him, jostled him, leered at the blood on his face.

 

Then he met the kind eyes of a stranger, and the spinning in his head seemed to slow down just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that the chapters on this have crept up to 40 (!) - although Paul is now (mostly) out of the picture, there’s a lot more I want to explore before we get to the ending, so it’s gonna be a little longer!


	16. Cremorne Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people deserve the benefit of the doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's up on a Friday????? How wild. I've just spent three days in Kensington (look out for the disgusting amount of geographical accuracy coming soon but starting now) and I am so crazily filled with inspiration. I even went and saw the Royal Opera House (where the Royal Ballet is) just to get the vibe of the streets surrounding it and the building itself. I'm too committed now.
> 
> Also, if you hadn't worked it out - the prologue is sandwiched between here and the last chapter :)

Jim’s fingers felt comfortingly familiar in Freddie’s hair. The gesture was so careful, so gentle, soothing the sore skin on his scalp; the cuts, the bruises, the torn follicles. Allowing himself to cry felt so vulnerable, yet so necessary: by crying, he was admitting there was a problem. He was admitting to Jim that he wasn’t happy, that he was scared, that he desperately needed help. He needed someone to wrap him up in cotton wool and fluffy blankets, someone to help him treat the bruising around his neck and to clean the wound along his lower back that he just knew was infected.

 

Long after he’d quietened down, he stayed in Jim’s arms; the hug was warm, safe, familiar. He closed his tired eyes and rested his head on the man’s collarbone. Everything felt heavy again, but in a different way. He was used to a restrictive heaviness, forbidding his movement; he didn’t feel like he had to fight this one. He was just beginning to doze, to finally fall into a peaceful sleep that he wasn’t scared to submit to, when careful fingers hooked under his chin. “Sweetheart?” The voice was so gentle; Freddie melted into it instantaneously. “I can’t leave you here. Where can I take you?”

 

Freddie was tired, so tired. He didn’t want to move. He glanced up at Jim, saw the worry knitting together his eyebrows. 

 

He had to be stronger for a little longer.

 

“Roger.” He said quietly, the words slurred with the exhaustion. His lungs burned from the choking, his eyes ached from crying, his whole body was sore. “John. Brian.”

 

Jim bit his lower lip nervously. First names weren’t especially useful in locating people in London. “Do you know the address, Freddie?”

 

He received a tired shake of the head, those haunting eyes slipping shut again.

 

Jim stood up slowly, laying his jacket over Freddie to help him keep warm, and went back out to the bar. Tim was stood behind it, tapping his pen with a bored rhythm; Heaven wasn’t all that popular on a Thursday night. “Long shot.” He started, standing beside him. “You don’t happen to know three guys called Brian, Roger and John, right? And you don’t know where they live?”

 

“Brian as in Brian May?” Tim asked, looking thankful for being given something to occupy his mind. “Lives with Roger Taylor and John Deacon?”

 

Jim nodded dumbly, hoping that they were the right men. He didn’t see how many groups with the same names could be living around here.

 

“Sure I do. Brian’s in my physics two class. We’ve been doing practicals together.” He shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

 

“You know the guy that came in earlier, covered in blood?” He asked. “Well, he’s asking for them. I was going to take him over there so that I know he’s safe for the night.”

 

Tim grinned in response. “130 Cremorne Road.” He said simply. “One of the big flats on the lower floors. Think it’s flat two. Four bedrooms.”

 

Jim started to smile in response. “Lifesaver.” He hugged him quickly before returning to Freddie.

 

Freddie was fast asleep on the little sofa, completely buried in Jim’s coat. One glance at him and Jim knew that he wasn’t up to walking; the poor man was completely exhausted. He considered the journey quickly: twenty minutes by car, but he was over the limit; half an hour by tube, but the Circle line didn’t run after midnight on a Thursday. 

 

He glanced over his arms quickly. He’d have to carry him.

 

Freddie stirred a little as he was picked up; his head lolled against Jim’s shoulder. He was surprised by how little Freddie weighed. He’d expected a heavy, dead weight, but Freddie was agile, knowing how to hold himself to make it easier on the arms. “What are you doing?” He asked quietly. The fur of his jacket tickled Jim’s neck, making him smile involuntarily.

 

“Taking you home.” He said softly. A wave of panic seemed to run through Freddie, and suddenly he was cold, clammy, though he were going into shock.

 

“Don’t take me back.” He whispered; his voice was so desperate that something ugly twisted in Jim’s stomach. “Please, please, I’ll do anything, I don’t care-”

 

“Hey, hey-” Jim cooed softly. “Sweetheart, calm down.” He said gently. “I’m taking you to Brian and Roger and John. That’s where you said before.”

 

Freddie breathed out slowly. His hands shook fiercely. “I’m sorry.” He apologised, looking rather embarrassed. “I just- I just got out of there.” He closed his eyes again.

 

“Is it okay to go to see them?” Jim asked softly, and Freddie nodded tiredly.

 

“Thank you.” He whispered softly, lips ghosting over Jim’s collarbone.

 

* * *

 

Brian groaned when there was a knock on the door; the clock was ghosting somewhere around three in the morning. He felt fuzzy, disoriented. No-one else in the house was stirring, so he stood up slowly. He wrapped himself in a dressing gown and padded down the stairs, out of the flat door and towards the main door.

 

He wasn’t expecting to see a bloodied, bruised and beaten Freddie Mercury, asleep in the arms of a stranger. 

 

“Hi.” Jim said nervously; his voice was quiet as to not wake Freddie. “Look, I know this is weird, but he came to Heaven and I couldn’t just leave him there with nobody that he knew.” He bit his lip again. “I’m kind of hoping that you’re either Roger, John or Brian.”

 

“Brian.” He replied dumbly. The sight of Freddie so small and vulnerable made him feel ill. “What happened to him?” He asked quietly. 

 

Jim shook his head. “I’ve no idea.” He admitted. “I tried to ask about it, but he started crying. I felt that it was best to at least leave it until the morning.”

 

Brian came forward, manoeuvring himself to take Freddie from the stranger. “And you carried him all the way here?” He asked, sounding slightly suspicious. He couldn’t quite trust the motives of the men that Freddie picked up. “I’ll take him now.”

 

He made sure to hold him in the same way, so that it wouldn’t wake him up. Still, as Freddie exchanged hands, his eyes flew open. His hands gripped onto the thin shirt that Jim was wearing; in that moment, he seemed like a tiny newborn refusing to move away from comfort and familiarity. “Hey.” Brian said softly. “Hey, Freddie, it’s okay, it’s me. It’s Brian.” He said softly, but still Freddie refused to let go. 

 

“No.” He muttered as Jim tried to move away. 

 

“Sweetheart, you have to let go.” Jim said softly, watching the way in which Freddie’s fists slowly uncurled. 

 

Freddie looked up, a desperate mixture of abandonment, fear and exhaustion in his eyes. “Please don’t go.” He said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

 

“Fred, we only have one spare room.” Brian tried to reason with him, wanting to get rid of the stranger. He couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t a part of this, one of the components of Paul’s machinations.

 

“He can stay with me.” Freddie was completely adamant. Brian took a moment to consider the full position.

 

Here was Freddie, who, in one way or another, had managed to get away from Paul. He’d made it to Heaven, where this man had cleaned him up and soothed him. The stranger had walked for over an hour to get Freddie to him, his jacket draped over Freddie’s shivering figure, in the middle of the night.

 

Brian relented. “It’s the middle of the night.” He reasoned. “You should come in. You’ll catch your death out there.” He smiled, although the look was wary. 

 

Freddie found the strength to stand, although one of Jim’s arms around his waist was needed to get him up the stairs. He just managed to help get Freddie changed before he was curled up small in the bed, heavy eyes just managing to stay open.

 

“Come to bed?” Freddie asked softly, looking over at where Jim was standing nervously by the door. “Please?”

 

Jim took a deep breath, stripping off his jeans quickly before climbing into the bed beside Freddie. He took his time to settle himself, his head cushioned comfortably against Jim’s chest. He couldn’t deny that he was surprised: Freddie was being so cuddly, as though he’d craved this attention for a long time. He brought his fingers up to carefully brush Freddie’s hair back; it was still a little bloody. He vowed he’d clean him up properly in the morning.

 

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” He murmured against the top of Freddie’s head. He felt Freddie’s lips curve into a smile against his chest.


	17. Marshmallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornings are for exploring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the morning after the night before was supposed to be one chapter but now it's going to be three (!). I just have too much inspiration for these guys.

When Freddie woke up, he realised that he was completely intertwined with another person. He moved one hand slowly over the body of the stranger, running over his chest, his arm and up to his neck. There were warm lips resting against his temple, breath fluttering through the hair in Freddie’s face. He smiled, completely enveloped by a peaceful warmth.

 

He couldn’t contain his giggle as hands rested lightly on his waist, tickling his sensitive skin. “Freddie-” Jim’s voice was thick with sleep, tired yet affectionate. 

 

“Good morning.” Freddie whispered, slowly opening his eyes to look at the man before him. Jim’s hair was messy, curling slightly at the ends; his lips and cheeks were pink with the warmth of sleep. Freddie ran his thumb over Jim’s jawline. The touch grounded him, promised his mind that this most definitely was not a dream.

 

“Good morning, gorgeous.” The low voice murmured in response. Jim reached up to brush Freddie’s hair from his eyes. The name made a memory flash through Freddie’s mind.

 

_ He was pinned against the bar at Heaven, his lips pressed against a stranger’s. He was smiling, his arms wrapped around the neck of the stranger, inviting him and pulling him closer. The stranger held him so carefully, those hands firmly on his waist, protecting him from the rest of the world. He was happy. _

 

Nerves blossomed in Freddie’s stomach. He didn’t recognise where he was, nor how he’d come to be here. He couldn’t quite put the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together. “What happened last night?” He asked softly.

 

Jim brought the blanket over Freddie’s bare arm. “I saw you in Heaven.” He said softly. “You were pretty out of it, but you told me that you knew a guy called Brian, so I brought you here. You insisted that I crash in your room with you.”

 

“I don’t recognise it.” Freddie said softly, curling closer as the cold air prickled at his skin. Jim instinctively brought him closer; Freddie smiled into his chest, settling down again. 

 

“I think the guys are downstairs.” Jim said softly. “If you want to go and see them, I mean.” He carefully brushed an eyelash from Freddie’s cheek. “Or I can help you get cleaned up first, if you’d like.” Freddie smiled at the idea, found himself nodding.

 

“That’d be good.” He said softly. He was vaguely aware that he was still stained with blood and dirt. He glanced around the room, eyes settling on a door on the side of the room. He pulled himself up to a seated position, and Jim took a moment to admire him from the side. “I haven’t got any of my things.”

 

Jim yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Brian brought two bags in here last night.” He pointed to them at the foot of the bed. Freddie recognised his spare ballet bag and an old backpack that he hadn’t used for a long time. The last time had been when they’d come to get him from Paul’s.

 

Freddie crawled down the bed and grabbed his backpack. It had a fairly random assortment of items inside, a multitude of clothes, and a few toiletries, but he still smiled. It was something. “He got my favourite body wash.” He said softly.

 

Jim propped himself up on his elbow, watching Freddie. “Which one is it?” He asked curiously, glancing over the bottle in Freddie’s hand.

 

He wanted to kiss the pink spots of Freddie’s blush on his cheeks. “Marshmallow.” He admitted, immediately smiling when Jim broke into a grin. 

 

“How about I help you with your hair?”

 

Jim’s fingers felt so relaxing in Freddie’s hair; he massaged the shampoo through carefully as Freddie leaned over the sink. “Tilt your head back a little more. I don’t want to accidentally pour water down your back.” His voice was so soft, making Freddie feel as though he could fall asleep at any instant. “You’ll catch a chill.”

 

Freddie’s smile was languid. “I’m sure a little water won’t kill me, darling.” Jim rinsed the shampoo out with cool water, the temperature soothing his warm skin. 

 

“I’m sure it won’t.” Jim reasoned, massaging conditioner through the ends. “But I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Freddie smiled, glancing up at the man above him. He wanted to kiss him.

 

_ A thumb ran over Freddie’s lower lip as he looked up. “Your wine will get warm, gorgeous.” He kissed the pad of it gently, absentmindedly, caught in the beauty of the man above him. _

 

Freddie hummed as Jim brushed out the knots carefully, being so mindful of any accidental tugs on his scalp. “You’re good at this.” The words fell from his mouth so naturally, his mind focusing on a melody that had suddenly come to mind.

 

“I would hope so.” Jim smiled as he massaged Freddie’s scalp gently, applying a little pressure to the spots on his temples where he seemed to hold tension. “I’m a hairdresser.”

 

A careful hand rested on Jim’s arm. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” Freddie asked quietly, looking up so innocently.

 

“It’s a Sunday.” Jim said gently. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart.”

 

The cool water rinsed through his hair again, washing out all the conditioner. Freddie felt clean, warm, protected in that way that only Jim seemed to make him feel.

 

The notes rang out again in his mind, echoing around every corner, consuming his attention completely. “I’m sad I had to leave my piano behind.” He said softly, talking more to himself than to anyone else. 

 

Jim hummed softly, blotting the water from Freddie’s hair with a towel. “Do you play a lot?” He asked curiously; Freddie found it endearing how he seemed to be so interested in every tiny part of his life.

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d played properly. Trying to play with crushed fingers was excruciating, he’d discovered, and so his piano had gathered dust in the corner of the room. Thinking about it now made his heart ache. “I used to.”

 

Jim helped him sit upright, a hand on the small of his back. “I’d like to hear you play sometime.” He grabbed a cloth and used it to gently wipe the remnants of any blood from Freddie’s face. “You’re really beautiful.” He admitted, his hand carefully tilting Freddie’s head to the side.

 

He meant what he said. The redness had disappeared from Freddie’s eyes, making the colour shine out; the perfect honey-brown in the morning sun. The warmth of his skin tone brought out the pinkness of his lips, slightly parted as he glanced up at Jim. 

 

Jim startled, but the hands on his cheeks were gentle, and the softness of lips against his was so familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick question (please answer in the comments!) - would you guys mind if I included actual Persian in this fic (as in, Freddie and Kash have conversations in Persian) with a translation in the notes, or would you rather than the text of the fic remained in English with signposts as to when it's actually Persian?  
> E.g.  
> 1\. "Men feker ma kenem men 'easheq aw hestem." Freddie's voice was so vulnerable, and Kash's stomach dropped just a little; she didn't want this whole situation to repeat itself.   
> (Notes: "I think I'm in love with him")  
> 2\. Jim didn't understand the richness of the language that they spoke, but he enjoyed listening to it anyway. "I think I'm in love with him." Freddie admitted, glancing over at Kash.


	18. Sheereen-am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim just wants to be in on the secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My guys, what a week it has been so far (we love being in a constant state of "I could have a panic attack at any second") - I'm very sorry for not getting this update to you earlier! I eventually went for option 1 on the poll, and so the text will be in Persian, but I've limited it to two lines as to not be disruptive. Translations are in the notes at the bottom. The next chapter is nearly written already and so will be up either today or tomorrow :)

Freddie sank down into the couch, trying to block out the rest of the room by cramming his hands over his eyes. The pain throbbed in the back of his skull, the horrid dull ache of when he pressed too firmly on his eyes, but he couldn’t seem to move; everything felt rigid, as though he were trapped in this state. He was trapped in a state of perpetual fear, of hating himself for overreacting to every little thing but also not being able to help it.

 

He knew that the small shove had been playful, one friend to another, but he could almost feel the hand gripping his hair, ripping and tearing to hurt him, to stop him, to control him.

 

His breath was ragged; he couldn’t breathe, he felt as though he were choking on his own air, too much and too little all at once. He hated constantly being reminded of Paul wherever he went, whatever he did. He wanted to bleach his brain, to wipe out all the memories. He wanted to be clean, to be pure, to love unapologetically and unequivocally like he used to.

 

This feeling terrified him, and it seemed to possess him all the more frequently; it was as though he couldn’t control his body or his mind, as though he were separating from himself, from his surroundings, from all the people that loved and cared about him in the room. He could only watch, again and again, everything that his body had been through, every time he’d been forced into something, or hit, stopped from doing something he loved, controlled.

 

His whole body tensed at the hand on his back: he was mortified, aware that everyone was looking, waiting for him to respond, to snap out of it and be fine again. He couldn’t talk; his mouth was dry, he was so frightened to admit what had happened to a room full of people, a stranger he’d developed feelings for, someone who wouldn’t want him when they realised what had happened.

 

“ _ Halet khewbh, aziz-am _ ?” Kash’s voice was soft, but the language grounded Freddie. When he was speaking English it was so easy to slip out of himself, to just say the words; to speak in his mother-tongue, he couldn’t be the Anglicised character that he’d created for himself. 

 

He knew why she’d used it, the same way as they used it as children; they could have conversations without anyone understanding, offering them a tiny bit of protection from the outside world. The breath eased its way back into his lungs: Kash would understand him, and no one would be able to understand him. “ _ Jewab menfa _ .” The reply was so simple, but it was the most honest he’d been in a long time. “ _ Aw methel aan bewd keh bh men hemlh kened. _ ”

 

Kash hugged him fiercely, understanding what he’d meant instantly. “It’s okay.” She promised him. She relaxed when she felt him slowly uncurl and pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re going to be okay, Freddie, I promise.” She squeezed one of his hands. Moving back to English was an invitation to the others, encouraging them to break out of their stunned silence; Jim was the first to accept it. 

 

He came over carefully and crouched down in front of Freddie, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Although he didn’t understand the conversation, Kash had implied enough for him to understand that Freddie was frightened at that moment. He settled just in front of him and took his other hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles. “You’ll be okay, sweetheart.” He promised.

 

Something in the finality of his voice helped Freddie to calm down. “Thank you.” He whispered; he even tried for a smile, though it came out small and sad. 

 

* * *

 

Jim stood next to Kash on the balcony, looking over her quickly. Within one glance, he could see how much she looked like Freddie; they shared the smoothness of their skin, and the richness of its colour, the darkness of their eyes, the fullness of their lips. She was one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen.

 

The thought made him smile. It was because she looked like Freddie.

 

“What were you speaking to him?” He asked quietly, looking out over the road in front of them. She glanced over at him, quizzical, but smiled.

 

“English isn’t our first language.” She offered by way of explanation. “We speak Persian together, sometimes. I thought he might find it comforting.”

 

“Persian.” Jim repeated; the word sounded so exotic on his tongue, so far away from his home life. “Were you born here?”

 

Kash’s eyes narrowed a little as she prepared herself for the racist comments that the question always seemed to precede. “No. We were born in Zanzibar, and lived in India until recently.”

 

Jim nodded absentmindedly. “That’s so cool.” He smiled, running a hand through his hair. “Is there anything that I should know? Any bits of language?”

 

He seemed so earnest, so genuinely interested in them both, and Kash was almost taken aback a little. She wanted to be wary of him, especially because of the state of her brother, but she found him endearing. There was something in him that made her feel warm, a connection that she’d never felt with Paul. He was open, gentle, seemed to know all the right things to say at the right times; she didn’t feel frightened to leave him in a room with Freddie.

 

She glanced over him: he looked big and strong, but he had an innate softness around the edges, materialising in the softness of his hair, the gentle slouch of his posture. He was trying his best with everyone in the house, finding some excuse to have a conversation, to bond with them. 

 

She hoped that when he left later that day, he’d come back again. In the few short hours between bringing Freddie to Brian and that late afternoon, he’d made an impact on all of them, most of all on Freddie.

 

Her brother was smitten, though he would never admit it.

 

“There’s something you could call him.” She offered a cheeky smile. She didn’t mind playing cupid. “A nickname, of sorts.”

 

“Oh?” Jim looked keen. “What is it?”

 

“ _ Sheereen-am _ .” She listened as he repeated it back to her, grinning. Freddie would love it. “You’ve got it. You can use it like you’d use any other pet name.”

 

“What does it mean?” Jim asked softly, but Kash walked back to the balcony doors.

 

“You don’t want to ruin the magic of it, do you?” She asked playfully. “Ask Freddie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Persian:  
> Kash: "Are you okay, my dear?"  
> Freddie: "No." "He used to shove me like that."
> 
> And you'll find out what sheereen-am means later!


	19. Satin Split-Soles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They just want to make him smile; he'd missed his birthday, after all.

The days that passed soothed Freddie’s broken mind. It had been three days since he’d come here, three days of adjusting to a new rhythm, one where he was his own keeper, where he could decide what he did and when he did it. It had been three days of making rounds of tea instead of solitary mugs, of trying to remember late afternoon coffee orders, of sitting with the others while they studied and he sketched.

 

It had been three days of re-adjusting himself to the world, teaching himself not to flinch from every touch, learning how to trust them to leave the door closed when he went to bed. It had been three days of finding someone else awake when he had night terrors, of hushed conversations at sunrise on the balcony, of reassurance whenever he seemed to disappear from himself.

 

It had been three days of reminding himself how he could be benefitted by others; helped, not harmed.

 

“Can we show him now?” John’s voice was so excited, and it instantly made Freddie feel nervous. Everything seemed too perfect to him, as though it would shatter in an instant; as though this was all an illusion, that they were still whispering the comments that Paul had dutifully recited back to him.

 

“Show me what?” He cradled his tea closer, cold fingers wrapped around the warmth of the porcelain. Since moving in with the boys, he’d found himself naturally gravitating towards chamomile tea, though he’d always been an English breakfast drinker. The chamomile was the taste that he could remember on Jim’s lips.

 

He glanced over at Brian, who shrugged and nodded. “I think it’s long overdue.”

 

John carefully took Freddie’s hand and pulled him into the big dining room. They never ate there, but each one had a corner dedicated to a project or hobby; Brian and John’s guitars sat in one corner, Roger’s drum kit snugly next to them. Freddie kept spare split-soles in a drawer on the other side: he liked to use the room to stretch out in private. 

 

Now, sitting comfortably in Freddie’s corner, was a grand piano.

 

He looked around quickly, meeting Roger’s eyes, who laughed. “Happy late birthday, Fred.”

 

“No way.” Freddie replied, moving towards it. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, as though it would disappear. “You didn’t-” He lifted the fall-board slowly, gasping when he saw the logo. “You got me a fucking Bechstein?”

 

The sunny smile on John’s face confirmed Freddie’s suspicions. “You’re incredible.” He said honestly, throwing his arms around John’s neck and hugging him close. “You’re all incredible. You’re the best friends that I could ask for.” He felt Brian and Roger join the hug, felt another arm around his waist. “How did you even get this? They’re so expensive!”

 

Roger looked smug. “It turned up at the market.” He said proudly. “I knew we had to get it for you when we saw it. You couldn’t spend your whole life on that little Yamaha upright.” He shrugged.

 

“It’s an antique Bechstein?” Freddie replied, looking genuinely dumbfounded. 

 

“I know it’s not as good as if it were new, but I had it all checked over, the guy couldn’t find any faults-” Roger was cut off by Freddie pressing down a chord, the rich sound flooding the room. He closed his eyes momentarily, feeling that same melody come back to his mind.

 

“Darling, it’s an antique Bechstein. They’re better than when they’re new.” 

 

Brian saw a confidence in Freddie that he hadn’t seen in a long while. He sat down on the stool, hands resting above the keys, before he started to play.

 

All three watched wordlessly as a melody that they hadn’t heard before filled the room around them. It jolted a little, and Freddie had to pause every time he crossed hands, but it was gorgeous nonetheless, accompanied by a soft hum over the top it. The final note rang out into silence.

 

“What’s the song called, Fred?” Brian asked softly. He felt reinvigorated, reminded of why they’d waited for Freddie to come back instead of searching for a new lead singer. There was something about the sudden grace of notes, the melodies that haunted Freddie’s mind, that were unlike anybody that he’d ever met before.

 

“I’m not sure, darling.” He replied, standing up. “But I think it has potential.”

 

Roger grinned and pulled Freddie into a hug, feeling the way that he stiffened and then almost immediately relaxed. “That sounds incredible.” He told Freddie honestly, pulling back after a moment.

 

Freddie grinned back at him and pulled away, moving back to the piano. He sat on the stool, carefully skimmed his fingers over the keys, before launching himself into something completely different, something fast, losing himself in the speed of his fingers dancing over the keys.

 

It was so easy to forget he had an audience when he was playing like this, hunched right over, the rest of the world blocked from view by long dark hair. It was a familiar tune to them all, a song played many times, perfected from years of arguments over tempo, over rhythm, over the place of guitar and the risk of it drowning out the piano.

 

Brian sat on the floor with his guitar and absentmindedly plucked strings in response to Freddie’s playing, grinning at the way that the two found their rhythm together so quickly.

 

When the money had worn thin, they had momentarily considered getting another singer. They had considered getting somebody who could sing all the lines right, somebody who could light up a stage, someone who could play at the same lightning speed.

 

It had never seemed right.

 

Even when Roger had sung those songs that Freddie had written, they had lost a depth, a richness, a connection. Each song was a little piece of his imagination, his soul, materialised into the most beautiful blossoming cacophony, auditory art, the music so inextricably linked to the swirls of paint on canvas and the satin of split-sole shoes.

 

In the same way that he possessed a beauty and grace of movement, he possessed one of voice, of a steady hand and quick fingers that could pluck something from nothing. 

 

Freddie’s music was cashmere, silk, satin, the grace that he had that made him look ethereal; that same grace made him walk as though his feet never truly touched the ground. The music was a carefully concocted mixture of sweet, sour, saccharine, bitter, rolling off the tongue with the beauty of a serpent.

 

They couldn’t bring themselves to sell the art; it wasn’t just a haphazard smudge of acrylic on canvas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the chapter count has crept up - the plot keeps becoming more elaborate, and now we're on 60! I now have the rest of the fic planned out, and so I'm confident that it won't change again.
> 
> However, do keep an eye out for a new fic called Incandescent; this is going to be a series of tiny stories or one-shots set in the Fluorescent!verse that don't fit in with this plot (but happen chronologically alongside it!).


	20. Music Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's beginning to feel at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last few chapters have been a little weird, I know - the plot kicks back in again in the next chapter, and then everything should start making sense again!

The music reminded Freddie of a music box. Sweet notes, intertwining too perfectly, swirling their way mellifluously through his mind and moving him as easily as a hand through water. He tilted his chin into the air, holding his head diligently at the right angle, elongating his throat to make those long, clean lines that were needed in dance.

 

This was his talent, his home, the place where he could be himself in such an unashamed way. It was the place where he could create moving art from the smallest of instructions and gestures.

 

_ “ _ _ Grand jeté, two, three; to the back, two, three; and up, two, three-” _

 

The words floated through his mind; his body followed wherever his mind went, taking him through the sequence so beautifully. He had an inalienable talent to replicate anything without needing to hear it twice, a memory so strangely photographic in both picturing and remembering what he had to do so flawlessly.

 

He tilted his head back, rolling it to one side with an ease and grace that seemed to forget that it was choreography and not a natural movement for him to do. He knew all the positions to hold himself in to make his bones pop, to create that slim, ethereal beauty in a body so strong. He held his arms up high, emphasising the point of his elbow; his back arched gorgeously, exposing the ribs under the strong muscles of his chest.

 

“Beautiful!”

 

It was the word that he wanted to hear; he didn’t care if it was feminine, if it wasn’t how he was supposed to look. He wanted to be beautiful, to encompass all the qualities of beauty: to be graceful, to be strong, to be elegant. He wanted the high cheekbones and the sharp jawline, the firm muscles in his lower legs, the softness of hair and of lips.

 

He turned to his water bottle, the cold liquid splashing down his throat. The morning hadn’t started it well, and so it was Brian who had brought him to ballet; Brian, who always seemed to know how to build him up for the day. Although it was still a struggle, although the memories still haunted him when he moved in the wrong way or said the wrong thing, there were little moments of enjoyment in his day: a lot of them revolved around his ballet practice.

 

A hand rested on his shoulder and he turned quickly, seeing Olga behind him. He had such an intense desire to impress all the visiting teachers from the company, but she was the one he admired the most. “That was something else, Freddie.” She said softly, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “That was gorgeous.”

 

A warmth flooded through Freddie’s cheeks, a nervous pride. He had never known how to react to compliments on his dance. “Could you do it again?” Olga asked him, giving him a sunny smile.

 

Freddie understood the magnitude of being asked to dance alone in front of the group. To learn in a group and stand out was one thing; it proved you were good at what you did, that you were worthy of separate consideration. To dance alone was to be considered an exemplar, somebody that others could aspire to be- somebody worth a role.

 

Freddie curled his toes momentarily and felt the ache of cramp run through his foot; they were into their fourth hour of ballet that day. Despite the physical protests from his tired body, begging him not to repeat a difficult routine unnecessarily, his mind spoke louder.

 

He stepped out into the centre, heard the music start and got the kick of performance running through his veins instantaneously.

 

_ Grand jeté, two, three; to the back, two, three; and up, two, three. _

 

The moves were so hard to perfect, so much more so in sequence, and yet he persisted. His chest heaved with the exertion as he took himself back through the routine, making peace with the fact that his every move was being scrutinised by highly trained eyes. 

 

He ended on a turn, even remembering to flex his toes on his landing, the step that he habitually forgot. His head was tilted upwards, creating a long line from the tip of his chin to the point of his toes, the perfect figure of ballet.

 

His cheeks flushed pink when the others applauded him: he still wasn’t used to this supportive atmosphere. To get to the school, every moment, every movement, had been a competition; he had to prove himself every step of the way.

 

He took a nervous bow and smiled shyly, moving to stand against the wall instead of in the centre of the stage.

 

* * *

 

Brian leaned against the doorway, taking a moment to glance over Freddie. The man was laying on the floor of the dining room in the most impossible splits, one foot propped up on top of one of Brian’s textbooks, chest flat against his leg. The only sign of discomfort came in Freddie’s slight grunt when he shifted, giving himself a break from the intensity of the stretch.

 

Having found a spare moment, Brian had intended to pick up on that riff that he’d started writing a few days ago, maybe even putting some nonsense words over the top in a melody. However, he hated to disturb Freddie when he was using the room; he’d always assumed that silence was a part of his practice. He moved to turn away again.

 

“Can I help you?” Freddie tilted his head to the other side, resting his cheek against his shin. Brian grinned a little, hand still on the doorknob. 

 

“I was going to play for a bit, but I saw that you’ve got the room.” He offered by way of explanation. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“No, no!” Freddie insisted, sitting upright. “Unless you’re planning on doing backflips, darling, then there’s plenty of room for you.”

 

Brian stepped towards him hesitantly. “Sure it won’t distract you?” He asked softly.

 

Freddie nodded and shifted, leaning with his forearms against the floor. “I promise. It’ll be nice to have something to listen to.”


	21. Mellifluous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'll never talk about it, but they can see it in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long this has taken - if you don't follow my other fics then you won't know that I've been recovering from a bad chest infection recently! I'm still not entirely happy with this, but just remember that there's more going on here than meets the eye...

The melody coming from the piano was beautiful, rich as always, mellifluous in a way that only seemed to happen when Freddie was at the stool. The songs were so familiar, the rehearsal being a repetition of what was known instead of the opportunity to write more, and yet he played them with an energy and vivacity as though they were the most innovative things he’d ever heard. There was something infectious in his playing, addictive in how his energy seemed to abound into the very notes themselves, granting them a life of their own. They weren’t just products of his fingers, but products of his soul.

 

John looked over when Freddie hit a wrong note; it was so uncharacteristic of him, especially with the steady fingers of his left hand. He had an unerring talent to play his own music perfectly, another part of his musicianship that John admired so greatly. He took the time to listen to the melody again: although he could hear the right hand so loudly, playing beautifully, the left hand was basic in a way that Freddie hated, playing only simple chords and notes.

 

“You okay, Fred?” Roger asked from behind the drums, twirling a stick around his fingers. They’d all noticed Freddie withdrawing again, although they tried not to talk about it, not wanting Freddie to feel ostracised. He tended to withdraw whenever he was reminded of what had happened, as though his mind periodically left his body to protect himself from those thoughts. In those moments he was a zombie, soulless.

 

Freddie glanced up with a quick nod and let out a fumbled apology. “Just tired.” He offered by way of excuse, but John wasn’t buying it. Freddie liked to be close when he was tired, to feel protected and safe; he didn’t fold in on himself like this. He wanted to sit down with him, to make him tea and ask him what he’d seen, what had triggered it, whether they needed to do something differently to help him.

 

John was paralysed by his own uncertainty, not wanting to make matters worse.

 

“What’s going on with the left hand?” As their other resident piano player, Brian was left to make most of the amendments to Freddie’s playing. “Have you forgotten it? I’ve got it written down somewhere.” Brian offered, reaching over to the unused dining table and searching through jumbled papers.

 

“No, no!” Freddie’s reply was quick, and John could feel some hint of desperation in his voice. “No, I can remember it, darling, don’t worry about that.” His smile was pained, exhausted around the edges; an emotional and physical tiredness that always seemed to accompany him on Sundays. John was concerned over if he rested enough; he had those nine in the morning classes every day except Wednesdays and Fridays, which fell at eight instead, and Sundays. Every Sunday, Brian bounded them out of bed for breakfast and practice bright and early, giving them the freedom to have their afternoons to themselves.

 

He’d occasionally found Freddie asleep on those afternoons, curled up on top of the covers of his bed, an abandoned painting lying on the floor beside him. He’d considered talking to Brian about it, maybe moving the practice to lunchtime, but he knew that it wouldn’t happen before he even asked.

 

Freddie seemed to snap out of his trance; his fingers moved faster, he stopped hitting the wrong notes, he played each part flawlessly. John let himself lose his concerns in the music. If he could play like that, so confidently, then he was sure that his worries were unwarranted.

 

Freddie suddenly snatched his hand away from the piano as though he’d been burned, a jolt running through his arm. “ _ Fuck- _ ” He tried to keep his voice low, but he knew that he’d already drawn too much attention to himself.

 

“What happened to your hand?” Roger asked quickly, grabbing his wrist gently to have a look. A long cut ran down his swollen index finger, which was taped to his middle finger. “Did you break it?”

 

“You’ve been playing with a broken finger?” John asked quietly, coming over to the two of them. “Freddie, that must’ve hurt so much! You should’ve told us.” He hated how Freddie did these little things, little sacrifices that hurt him just so that he didn’t have to draw attention to himself.

 

“It’s not bad.” He insisted, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “It barely hurts, I mean. So long as it’s all taped up.” 

 

Brian took one look at his hand and frowned. “You’ll make it worse if you try to play, Fred.” John knew immediately that the authority in his voice was the wrong way to approach the situation; it cut Freddie off from everyone else, made him feel isolated and frightened. As long as he’d known, Freddie had had problems with authority: most of the authority that he’d known had disapproved of him for a long time.

 

Brian tried to close the lid of the piano quietly, but the audible bang had Freddie jumping from his seat. John could see the emotions flashing through his mind, the memories that glazed over his eyes, moments of a voice too firm and a noise too loud and a fist too harsh.

 

Freddie had never spoken about it, but he’d known enough from the first time they’d gone in and rescued him. 

 

He stood still, rooted to the spot, as Brian approached him, as though he couldn’t make the decision to flee or to stay. It was as though he were bracing himself for whatever was to come next. John’s heart cracked a little when Freddie flinched away from the hand on his arm; he was so vulnerable, and it felt so wrong to just watch him, but it was as though he couldn’t do anything else.

 

Brian felt the flinch and glanced down at Freddie quickly. It was as though he was noticing the strain around the edges for the first time, the way that exhaustion threatened to weigh his eyes down at any moment. He spent so much of his life on edge, waiting, remembering, reliving. He was tired.

 

He wrapped him in a hug wordlessly and felt Freddie’s sigh as he hugged back. “I’m sorry.” The voice was a well-practiced mantra, a phrase to be clung onto when the world was trembling around him and threatening to fall down entirely.

 

Maybe one day they could understand the inside of his mind.

 

“Don’t be sorry.” Came the simple reply, and Brian released him from the hug. “How about we call this off and you can go and get some rest?”

 

Freddie’s nod was quick; almost relieved.

 

When John passed the door to his room later in the day, it was propped open ever-so-slightly. Freddie was curled up in the bed, sheets bunched around his shoulders, fast asleep against the pillow that he hugged to his chest. A little piece of hair fluttered against his lips as he breathed deeply, heavy with sleep.


	22. Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's a good day, or maybe he's finally starting to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is she so obsessed with his hand?

A rare day of sunshine had cut through the bleariness of the November wetness; a warmth filled the air, dried the grass, warmed the bare toe that peeked through the hole in his sock. The sun lit his paper perfectly as he sketched lazily, vaguely outlining the silhouette of a man mid- jeté. He’d been putting off this coursework for a long time, having submitted his title a long time ago and then put it to the back of his mind.

 

He was laying in the garden, the old picnic blanket on the grass, a large sweater covering most of his body. He’d brought out the jumper, old, pale, yellow, ‘sunshine’ emblazoned across the front in white letters, when he’d seen the sun that morning. That morning, the world had seemed a little kinder, a little more gentle; he felt a little less fragile. He’d had days like this before, of course - days where he finally felt as though he was healing, was finally getting better - but he hadn’t felt like this for an extended period of time since he’d left India. This emotion came as a conclusion to a good few days.

 

He lay out on his back and closed his eyes momentarily, letting the sun warm the skin of his face. It had been three weeks since he’d walked out; three weeks of healing, of movie nights and early practices, of shared bottles of wine over scrabble, of midnight giggles with a man that may or may not be his.

 

Freddie smiled despite himself. It felt like living.

 

He heard footsteps approach him, but they faltered on the path when they saw him. “Go ahead, darling, I’m not asleep.” He opened his eyes and glanced up at Roger, who came closer to him to see what he was drawing.

 

“You’ve got a visitor.” He hummed, picking up the sketchbook to look more closely. “Do you mind if I bring him through?” He flicked through a couple of pages as Freddie sat up, running a hand through the knots in his hair. He was expecting Kash, or maybe even Mary; he was in the mood for some company, and the thought filled him with warmth.

 

“Go ahead.” Freddie grinned, taking the book back when Roger handed it to him.

 

He yawned, stretched out, and spread the picnic blanket wider as he waited; he gathered up the pencils that he’d been using and tucked them away in their case. It was quickly approaching midday, the sun was high in the sky, but he pulled his sleeves up and over his hands anyway: he enjoyed the heavy weight of the sweater against his skin.

 

“Freddie?” The voice was soft but the accent was memorable, a soft Irish twang that culminated in the upward inflection at the end of his sentences. 

 

A smile washed over Freddie’s face and he stood up quickly, wrapping the other man in a hug. Jim laughed and pulled him closer, holding him tightly. He could tell that Freddie was doing better today: the excitement in his face touched his eyes, he wanted to be touched, cuddled, loved. “Hello, love.” Jim’s voice was soft.

 

“You came to visit me!” Freddie’s voice was filled with a childlike innocence that had Jim pressing a kiss to his forehead. He pulled back a little and cupped Freddie’s cheek before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

 

Freddie gasped; it had been three weeks of tentative kisses to his forehead, to his knuckles, even the inside of his wrist. He hadn’t had the taste of chamomile against his lips for so long: it was as though Jim had grown frightened of kissing him after he’d begun to fill in the gaps in the crossword of his life. Freddie had clung onto that first night in Heaven, giggling and wine-drunk, those lips pressed so firmly to his and holding him so close.

 

He chased Jim’s lips as he pulled away slightly, succeeding in capturing another, more passionate kiss. He rested his hands on Jim’s shoulders and gripped him tightly, standing on his toes to decrease the gap between the two of them. Strong arms wrapped around his waist and Freddie smiled into the kiss.

 

“Finally.” Freddie smirked as he pulled away and Jim laughed again. “I was starting to think that you’d never kiss me again.”

 

He felt like it was a step to re-claiming himself, claiming his lips back for himself, for his love. It was a refusal to be the product of his past, an embrace of the future, of loving unapologetically and not being reminded every moment of the ways he’d been mistreated. He felt bad for thinking of Paul in moments like this; it still felt like a rebellion against his authority, allowing himself to be treated kindly.

 

Even thinking about him now, Freddie didn’t feel the usual leap of panic in his throat. His hands trembled a little, but he allowed it: he was sick and tired of chastising himself for the smallest of things that couldn’t be helped.

 

Jim pressed one last kiss to his lips and then led Freddie back to the blanket on the grass. “I brought biscuits.” He grinned at the look of delight on Freddie’s face. “When you got drunk the other night, you were insisting that red velvet cookies were the best thing you’d ever eaten and you couldn’t find them anywhere.” He sat down beside Freddie. “You looked like you were about to cry.”

 

Freddie grinned as a slight blush tinted his cheeks. “You bought them for me?”

 

“I bought them a couple of days ago. I thought of you when I saw them.” Freddie picked up the bag and searched through it before finding them. He tore the packet open excitedly and grabbed one, only stopping momentarily to drop a kiss on Jim’s cheek before he started to eat. 

 

Jim hummed in satisfaction as Freddie picked his pencils up again and started to draw. He lay beside him and glanced over the outline on Freddie’s page. He took a moment to look over Freddie: the two fingers taped together on his left hand, the curls in his hair, the glow of rude health in his cheeks that seemed so different to how washed out he’d looked before. The yellow of his sweater worked wonders to bring out the warmth of his skin tone. 

 

“You look good in yellow.” He said mindlessly and Freddie grinned. 

 

“I should hope so, darling. It’s my favourite colour.” Freddie’s reply was cheeky, but it was fun: Jim felt as though he was getting the first glimpses of the Freddie from before, before his loud personality had had its colours dimmed and confined to a small expanse of canvas. Jim took his left hand and drew absent-minded circles on his palm, moving the same way as if he were performing a head massage, feeling the muscles relaxing underneath the pad of his thumb. 

 

“What happened to your hand?” He asked softly, tracing his thumb over the scar on his finger. “One of those craft knives?”

 

As far as Jim knew, Freddie was at university, studying for a degree in fine art; he had no idea about just how young he was, or his chosen career. Freddie wanted to leave him in the dark a little longer, not wanting his dreams to crash down around him so quickly. “Something like that.” Freddie smiled, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes that time.

 

He watched as Jim traced careful patterns over the back of his hand; his pencil froze, poised in his hand. “Feels nice.” He said softly. Something about the warmth of the sun, the fresh air, the inalienable happiness that seemed to animate his bones, made it all feel a little more okay that he was letting himself be looked after.

 

He shifted next to Jim and let himself be pulled closer; their bodies seemed to find where they fit so naturally, so carefully slotted together. A chin rested on top of his head as he settled into the crook between Jim’s neck and shoulder; a hand rested in his hair and played with it gently. Freddie’s arm went around Jim’s waist to pull himself in closer, his eyes fluttering shut.

 

He was warm.

 

Jim’s heartbeat was steady in his ear, drumming with a comforting familiarity. He felt so safe there, for a second, his mind completely cleansed of any worry, any old thought that still clung to his brain. “I love the way you hold me.” Freddie’s voice was gentle as he spoke into the soft skin at the base of Jim’s throat.

 

Jim shifted comfortably, using it as an excuse to pull Freddie closer. Knowing that Freddie wanted to be close like this, that he felt safe enough to let his guard down, was the most gratifying thing. He loved the small things that he did, the way that his fingers gripped onto whatever Jim was wearing to keep himself close, the way that his breath tickled his collarbone. So often, he felt, the men he met were only interested in one thing.

 

“It’s a good job that I love holding you, too.”

 

To Jim, it was almost a confession of love. It was close enough to paint a smile on his face so wide that he was almost glad that Freddie couldn’t see.


	23. Glass Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conflict of interests.

_ He was warm from the alcohol, from the arms that held him so close and tight, so familiar. He tilted his head back as kisses ran their way down his throat, trailing over his collar bones and then back up to his jawline. He twisted his fingers lazily in the fabric of the man’s shirt. _

 

_ “I’m so glad you came back.” The voice was so comforting, the lazy twang of an Irish accent, the sound filling him with warmth. “I’m so glad that you came home.” _

 

_ He’d gone out alone, one of those nights where the pounding in his head echoed the pounding in his heart, where he needed to distract himself. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, just left in a raunchy little black shirt and those distractingly tight pants. He’d wanted to find someone, someone to fill this gap in his heart where he wasn’t satisfied. _

 

_ He wanted to find somebody that didn’t know anything about him, that wouldn’t treat him like he was broken property.  _

 

_ He gasped and laughed as those lips finally found his own, lapping against the familiar tastes: cigarette smoke, red wine, chamomile. He was pressed into the corner of the small booth, letting himself be controlled: it felt good to let himself go, to fall back into that mindless state. It was easier to deal with all the anxieties that flared through his body when he was convinced that someone else would look after him. _

 

_ “What do you want?” The voice asked again, hands tucking themselves under his shirt, and he grinned, closing his eyes. _

 

_ “Anything.” The response was breathy, the voice detached from the person. “You.” He felt the grin against his skin as those kisses trailed down his neck, down his chest. Dark eyes closed, getting lost in the sensation of touch. _

 

_ “I’m going to take such good care of you.” _

 

_ Hands worked over his buckle quickly; panic was tempered by the alcohol, the vodka that muted every part of his mind. _

 

_ “I love you.” The words broke free with a mind of their own; the music of the club beat in his mind as he gasped with the first touch. _

 

_ “I love you, too.” _

 

* * *

 

Freddie wrung his hands nervously: he felt guilty, sick to the base of his stomach. Life had been so easy when he hadn’t had to make his own decisions, when he was a pawn in another’s game instead of the king of his own.

 

He’d never been any good at chess.

 

He glanced at the man in the bed next to him, the one with fingers running through Freddie’s hair, absentmindedly braiding and combing out individual little sections. He was warm, comforting, familiar, but a feeling of dread rose into Freddie’s stomach as he glanced over him.

 

He carefully caught the wrist in one hand, catching the attention of the other man also. “I think you should go.” Freddie’s voice was unnaturally calm, almost mechanical, as though the sentence had been practiced a thousand times before. It was almost as though he were the vessel through which something else was speaking, as though he’d been possessed by a demon that had decided to think for him.

 

“Freddie-” Jim was surprised by Freddie’s sudden comment: he’d been so careful as their relationship had blossomed, taking the lead of everyone else, trying to never push him beyond where he was comfortable. He’d sat through panic attacks, hushed night terrors, dedicated days of his life to reassuring a man that he wasn’t sure would ever recover.

 

“Please.” There was emotion in his voice this time; a cruel, manipulative whimper that made Jim feel as though he were the enemy. It was almost desperate, as though he were relying on this scene only playing out in one way, as though he were responding to a strategy that had only assumed one situation.

 

“Why?” Jim asked eventually, but he moved to sit up slowly. Sunday mornings were their time together now, the times where they could sleep in and wake up tangled in each other, neither having to worry about work until Freddie’s band practice at eleven. It was early, Jim knew, and he suddenly worried that Freddie had hated every routine that they’d built up together.

 

Freddie pulled away then and stood up: he was wearing an old shirt of Jim’s, a substitution for all the nightwear that he’d had to leave behind when he escaped. “This isn’t fair on you.” Freddie’s voice was almost theatrical in its intonation, as though he were delivering a dramatic speech for the purpose of evoking emotion in an audience. “I can’t keep stringing you on like this.”

 

Jim walked up behind him, resting hands on his waist as they both looked out of the window. “You’re not stringing me along.” Jim’s voice took on the desperate tone now. “Freddie, sweetheart, if this is about not wanting sex, you know I don’t mind-”

 

Freddie shook his head dismissively. “It’s not that.” He took a deep breath, eyes never leaving the tree opposite them in the garden. “I don’t love you.”

 

Jim’s hands left Freddie’s body as though he’d been given an electric shock: those words sounded so cold, so hateful, as though this man was somebody completely different to the one he’d fallen in love with. “Oh.” Was all he could manage around the lump forming in his throat. He turned away, hands shaking, and grabbed his jeans from the bedroom floor.

 

“Then I think I should go.” Jim echoed, trying to match the harshness of Freddie’s tone; his voice wavered miserably. “I didn’t realise you felt so strongly about it.”

 

“I’m in love with someone else.” Freddie was practically talking over the top of him, but his voice had softened now, now that Freddie was speaking of his love. Jim wanted to be sick; he couldn’t believe how badly he’d misjudged the situation. They’d never been exclusive, never said those words, but he thought there’d been something between them: he thought neither of them had taken other partners, thought that these little domestic routines displayed some hope of a future between them.

 

“That’s nice.” Jim forced out, grabbing a random shirt off the floor and hoping it was his as he pulled it on. Freddie hadn’t looked away from the window once, hadn’t even glanced back to check his reaction. 

 

“He’s really good to me.” Freddie sounded as though he were up in the clouds, not waiting to hear a response to his statements. “He’s so gentle, he knows just how to treat me. He’s not afraid of pushing me a little, and it’s so comforting-”

 

“I’m going.” Jim spoke over the top of Freddie. He took a moment to look around the room, to look at the crumpled sheets that he’d slept between the night before. The memories haunted the back of his mind, the happiness that he’d finally felt. “I’ll see you around.”

 

Freddie’s shoulders sagged as he left the room.

 

* * *

 

_ “How did he take it?” _

 

_ “Pretty well, I think. It could’ve gone worse.” _

 

_ “I’m so proud of you, love.” _


	24. Ivo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter, a mantra, a desperate call from the mind. What's real and what's made up?

_ I thought I was unhappy. _

 

_ I thought that I was trapped, that I couldn’t do what I wanted, that I would be so much happier without you. That I would be independent, strong, living my life in the way that I wanted to. _

 

_ Baby, that was an illusion, and I’m so sorry. _

 

_ I’m sorry that I ever doubted you. I’m sorry that I let myself be so misguided. I’m sorry that I thought for even a second that you did those awful things to me. It was all illusions, sick little nightmares that I let myself think were real. It was just my mind, baby, my sick little mind getting everything mixed up, past experiences and new memories. _

 

_ You tried to tell me, I remember. You told me that I was sick and I wouldn’t listen to you. But I am, baby, I am. I know I am. You never said those things, never threatened me, never called me those names. You never lay a finger on me. You would hold my hands so that I stopped pulling out my own hair. _

 

_ I remember when I accused you of that assault. You pressed a kiss to my forehead, you whispered that “of course I didn’t do that, sweetheart, I love you”. And you did love me. You loved me in a way that nobody else can love me. You loved me in that way, wholehearted and unapologetic, that nobody else will.  _

 

_ Everyone treats me as though they can’t go within a ten-metre radius of me without triggering something. I thought that life without you would be freedom, but I was so wrong, baby, so, so wrong. You gave me choices, let me act freely, pushed me to pursue all of my dreams and helped me differentiate the real from what was in my mind. It wasn’t your fault that I was getting sicker, that it was getting harder for you to help me. _

 

_ Everyone questions everything now. I can’t leave the house without being asked what I’m doing, where I’m going, when I intend to be back. I get these disapproving looks whenever I come back drunk. _

 

_ Thank you for the cigarettes. I’m having to smoke them on the balcony at the moment. If the house starts to smell of smoke then I’m sure I’ll be given one of those long, let’s-sit-down-and-think-this-through chats.  _

 

_ I’m sick of having to think things through. You always let me be impulsive, let me try out new things. I’m still a teenager, baby, and a teenager in a new country at that. I want to have the experiences that everyone else is allowed to have. You knew what I could and couldn’t do, because I was sick; you knew what would make me happy and what would shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. _

 

_ I’m getting bad again. _

 

_ I thought I saw you, the other night. I hope it was you. If I wasn’t you, then I called him your name. I can’t work out if it was real or not. I tried using that checklist that you gave me, but I can’t remember it all. I’m losing a lot of memories again. _

 

_ It did have that haziness around the edges, but I think I’d been drinking. I know you said something about colours. It was darkened, kind of like my vision was in vignette. The speech wasn’t robotic, it was almost hyper. I didn’t have any marks on me the next day, which is always a warning sign. _

 

_ It’s getting cold outside, but I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to have to go and pretend that I’m fine when I feel sicker than ever. I feel like I’ve lost my grip on my own mind. _

 

_ I want to come home. _

 

_ I’m not at home here. I can’t call it a home when there are areas that I don’t feel like I can use. Do you remember how the shower always used to help me? It always used to make me think so clearly. I used to recite things to myself in there so that I would remember them. _

 

_ They make me get out pretty quickly now. They think I’m selfish for using all the hot water. I can’t spend time remembering and recapping like I used to.  _

 

_ I haven’t told them that I’m sick, so maybe that’s my fault. _

 

_ I got rid of the other guy, like you suggested. You were right. I feel so much lighter. He always dragged me down. He refused to treat me like a normal person. I was spiralling because of him, because of the way that he refused to fucking kiss me, the way that the only fucking place that he would touch was my waist. _

 

_ I’m getting angry. I need to calm down. _

 

_ I want to come home to you, baby. I miss you. I miss the way that you treated me. You’re the only person that’s ever treated me like I’m normal. You treat me like a normal man. I miss the way that you would watch me and critique my performance, the way that you would help me get the stretches deeper, the way that you would help me do drills. I miss the sex, too. Maybe that’s bad. I don’t know. I seem to freeze up whenever one of the guys at a club touches me. My mind is convinced that I’m some kind of victim, but I’m sure now that it’s lies. _

 

_ I want to come home to you, baby, and be free. I want to love you, to be loved, to get better. I want to get better for you. I want to be your perfect little housewife, a pretty little ballerina, free of conscience and full of spirit. I want to make you so proud of me, and to be so proud of you in return. _

 

_ I need you, baby. I need you to make me better. I’ve tried so hard on my own, to keep up appearances, to act as though everything is fine, to show everyone that I’m not the victim that they think I am. And I’m not, because you’re not. But I am sick.  _

 

_ I know I keep repeating it, but you need to know that I think you were right all along. When I’d wake up with those bruises, I’d scream at you, you’d pepper kisses over my face and tell me what had really happened, how you’d calmed me from being so self-destructive. You were right, I was wrong. I let myself get lost in this little fantasy, where you were the big, bad wolf and I was the damsel in distress. That’s not how it was, baby, I know it. _

 

_ I love you so much. _

 

_ I hope you’ll let me come home. _

 

_ I want to come home. _

 

_ I need to come home. _

 

_ I love you so much. _

 

_ I’m so sorry I’m sick. _

 

_ I need you. _

 

_ I’m so sorry. _

 

_ I love you so much. _


	25. Graceless Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's real?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a proper chapter, just messing around with form.

_It hurts._

 

_Are you okay?_

 

_I don’t know. Is this real?_

 

_Is this real?_

 

_Are you real?_

 

_Am I real?_

 

_Am I real?_

 

_Are you real?_

 

_Stop. You’re confusing me._

 

_You were already confused._

 

_You’re confusing me more._

 

_Are you okay? What hurts?_

 

_How do I work out if this is real?_

 

_Remember your stages._

 

_I can’t remember them._

 

_Stage one. What’s stage one?_

 

_Stage one? Colour. What’s the colour like?_

 

_What is the colour like?_

 

_It’s dark around the edges. Have I been punched? Is this real?_

 

_Stage two. What’s stage two?_

 

_I don’t remember stage two._

 

 _Stage two is sound. What can you hear?_

 

_Table tennis. Maybe it’s the ticking of a clock. A chopping knife? A metronome? All the sounds are blending together. My ears are ringing._

 

_Stage three?_

 

_Touch. I’m holding my hands tightly. I’m cold. Am I walking?_

 

_Stage four?_

 

_I can smell metal._

 

_Stage five?_

 

_What’s stage five?_

 

_You remember stage five._

 

_No I don’t._

 

_What can you taste?_

 

_I can taste blood._

 

_Are you hurt?_

 

_I don’t know._

 

_What do you know?_

 

_I don’t know._

 

_You must know something. You were doing better._

 

_I never thought I was sick._

 

_You think you are now._

 

_I lost my grasp on reality._

 

_That doesn’t mean you’re sick._

 

_It means you’re insane._

 

_It does not._

 

_It does._

 

_You were doing better, weren’t you? That lovely picnic in the November sunshine, sitting out in the garden wearing yellow?_

 

_I wasn’t happy._

 

_But you were doing better._

 

_I want to be happy._

 

_Will this make you happy?_

 

_I don’t know._

 

_I want it to make you happy._

 

_I want it to make me happy. I want to be better._

 

_You’re going to be better._

 

_You said I wasn’t sick._

 

_You think you’re sick._

 

_But I’m not sick._

 

_Whatever you say._

 

_You’re confusing me again._

 

_You’re not sick. We still don’t know if this is real._

 

_How can I find out if this is real?_

 

_Reach out. Talk to someone._

 

_I am talking to someone. I’m talking to you._

 

_Am I real?_

 

_You’re talking in riddles. Of course you’re real._

 

_If you’re sure._

 

_I’m not sure._

 

_I didn’t think you were._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Are you still here?_

 

_Of course I am, baby._

 

_It’s a long time since you called me that._

 

_It’s a long time since you’ve talked to me._

 

_I’m sorry._

 

_You don’t have to be sorry. I waited for you. You’re loyal, I knew you’d come back._

 

_You waited for me?_

 

_Of course I did. I love you._

 

_You love me?_

 

_I love you._

 

_I’ve been blind._

 

_It’s okay, baby. You can start afresh._

 

_I want to cut my heart out._

 

_Why would you do that?_

 

_I want to clean it. I want to bleach it and make it pure for you._

 

_For me?_

 

_For you._

 

_How do you know I’m real?_


	26. Love Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words are right, but they're so wrong.

He noticed the soft sound of the floor creaking before he heard the voice. He glanced up from the papers in front of him, the equations that taunted his mind, that he didn’t yet fully understand. Freddie had been out for most of the day, but he’d let it slide; the man deserved to make his own decisions, even if they were to miss practice. He assumed that he’d had an argument with Jim, having heard the door go early, but he didn’t particularly want to deal with a heartbroken Freddie when he had his coursework to do.

 

The door opened slowly, revealing a tired-looking Freddie. He was still wearing that yellow sweater from the day before, tight black pants, and the coziest looking pair of socks that Brian had ever seen. “Bri?” He said softly, knocking lightly on the door. “Can I come in?”

 

He shoved the papers to one side and glanced over at Freddie. “Go ahead.” He smiled, trying to straighten out his room a little. “What can I do for you?”

 

“I’m not feeling too great.” Freddie was trying to be honest, but also trying to not give too much away. “Bit dizzy. I was hoping that you had some painkillers or something.” He headed towards Brian’s bed and sat beside him.

 

Brian hummed a little, pressing a hand to Freddie’s forehead; the young man leaned into his touch, the tension in his shoulders softening just a little. “You’re a little cold.” He conceded. He glanced over Freddie, taking in the competing tiredness and tension in his body. “How are you doing otherwise?”

 

Freddie seemed to falter for a moment. He considered the extent of the truth that he would tell Brian: it wasn’t as simple as giving him the whole truth, consequences be damned. “I’m not doing that good up there.” Brian’s eyes flickered to Freddie’s forehead unconsciously, as though he could see his mind. “I’m confused.”

 

“Confused by what?” Came the response; Brian turned towards him, sitting cross-legged opposite him. He had promised, when Freddie had first moved in, that he would be an ear to listen if he ever wanted to open up. He’d assumed that Freddie had forgotten about that long ago.

 

“I’m trying to work out what’s true, and what’s real.” Freddie bit his thumbnail nervously. “I’ve learned a lot of things, and I don’t know if I’ve learned them wrong.”

 

He was shivering heavily and Brian grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders to help warm him up. “What kind of things?” He asked softly. “Where have you been today, Freddie?”

 

“Walking around. Thinking.” The words were a half-truth, as much as he was reluctantly willing to admit. “Thinking about the future. Thinking about love.” He glanced up to meet Brian’s eyes. His gaze was friendly, warm, somebody that he could trust.

 

He was so conflicted. Frustrated memories of being confined to the house were attributed to those eyes, and something didn’t seem quite right.

 

“I was taught that happiness is love.” Freddie said quietly. He seemed confined to riddles, but at least expressing the words grounded those thoughts to real life. “My mother taught me that. The greatest happiness is to love somebody else wholeheartedly.” A small smile fluttered around the edge of his lips. “But I was also taught that love hurts. It always hurts. It hurts your heart and it hurts your mind and it hurts when you press on the bruises on your arms from somebody that loves you. If somebody hurts you, it’s because you love them and they love you.” Fingers trailed over the ring on his first finger, a new present. “But that means that happiness hurts, and I can’t make sense of that. Am I supposed to enjoy hurting? Is that what it is to be happy?”

 

Brian considered the thought for a moment. “Love doesn’t hurt in that way.” He said softly. “Sometimes you love someone, and they push you away, or you push them away. You know in the back of your mind that maybe you’ve done the wrong thing, you should’ve fought harder or kept them close.” Freddie looked so wrapped up in his words, as though he were trying to apply them to his life. 

 

“Sometimes your mind can convince you that things are worse than they are, that you’d be happier with a change, and then you have to fight to get things back to how they were.” Brian said softly. “Sometimes you need a break from someone to realise how much they mean to you. That’s what people mean when they say that love hurts. It hurts to be separated from someone that you love, but sometimes you need it to know that they’re the right person.” Brian’s mind flashed to Jim, the way that he’d been pushed away; Freddie had to be asking because of that. “You can make it right, Fred. I promise.”

 

Freddie nodded. “I feel like I’m going crazy.” He chuckled, ducking his head down and running a hand through his soft hair. “Decisions are tough, right?”

 

“So tough.” Brian reached out and squeezed one of Freddie’s hands. “You know, if you want somebody to come with you to see someone, then I’ll come.”

 

“See someone?” Freddie echoed, suddenly glancing up.

 

“A psychiatrist, a therapist, a doctor. Anyone you want.” Brian promised, smiling. “They might help you to work through things.”

 

Even Brian thought he was sick. 

 

“I think I’m okay. I’ll work it out. I’ve just got some big decisions to make.” Freddie’s smile was forced as he turned away. “It’s late. I need to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

_ The softest fingertips skimmed over his cheekbone. The breath was warm against his lips, the other hand holding his waist so tightly. “Do you remember what I taught you?” _

 

_ “Love hurts.” He breathed, glancing up at the smile above him. The sight made his chest blossom with warmth, the knowledge that he’d pleased the person that he loved the most. “It hurts your heart, your mind and your body.” _

 

_ “You’re so good.” The praise rolled over him in waves; he felt so safe in those words.  _

 

_ The human condition clings to hope, he remembered someone teaching him. We always hope that the next time will be better, that things will change, that we can stay where we’re happy and healthy and safe with those people that we think are best for us. _

 

_ “Hurt me.” A soft voice breathed. “If love hurts, then hurt me. I want to feel loved.” _

 

_ He felt the smile as it pressed against his lips. _


	27. Spectrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A realisation on two behalfs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wanted answers, I provided. Partially. I'm loving reading all of your theories about the italics - no one's quite gotten it yet! All will become clear in time.

 

 

_Calm down. Breathe. What can you hear?_

 

_The beat of the music. I like this song. It’s one of my favourites._

 

_What can you smell?_

 

_Wine. I think I spilled some down my top._

 

_Touch?_

 

_The hair at the nape of your neck. It’s fuzzy. You cut it recently._

 

_Taste?_

 

_Blood. Is it my blood?_

 

_See?_

 

_Bright lights. Blue, bright lights. Police? Ambulance? Club lights?_

 

* * *

 

He felt as though a new breath of life had been given to him. The music was so loud, reverberating through his body, matching the beat of his heart. He tilted his head back, the lights flashing against his closed eyelids, and his head hit a collarbone behind him. There were so many people so close to him, lazy gropes and kisses to his neck and cocks grinding against his ass.

 

He was almost too drunk to stand, too drunk to feel anything except excitement. He viewed the world with wonder, everything being so new and so novel and perfectly untarnished. He was being held up by a pair of strong hands on his waist as he danced, hands tucked into the hair of his lover. He swayed his hips, moving completely unconsciously, unaware of the attention on him from elsewhere in the room.

 

Jim swallowed the rest of his drink bitterly. He wanted to forget all about it, to find someone that wasn’t fucked up, was normal and would be good to ease a month of frustrations. He hated how easily Freddie had thrown away a month’s worth of work, as though every moment that they’d spent together hadn’t meant anything to him, that he expected it. Like he was some kind of slave to Freddie’s passions.

 

He hated how his eyes couldn’t seem to drag themselves from his figure in the middle of the room, fucked off his head, dancing like some kind of whore. He hated how he’d obviously completely misread the situation; he thought that Freddie had wanted someone patient, gentle, with time to spare to love him. This was living proof that he wanted hard, he wanted fast, he wanted to be smothered by life instead of carefully gilded in the gold it had to offer.

 

He hated how bitter he felt towards the man in the centre of the room when he still loved him. He hated how much he despised the man he was dancing with. Something didn’t add up, and he was sure of that. He remembered seeing that face on the first night he’d seen Freddie, the night he’d pinned him against the bar and kissed his lips red. The hand that had pulled him away had been attached to that body, and that body to that face; that same hand had slapped him afterwards.

 

He had to admit that he’d thought the narrative was made up for the purpose of soap operas and bad teenage movies. The abused goes back to the abuser after escaping because of the stability, the familiarity, the routine, the what-the-fuck-ever it was that they were seeking from a relationship. He didn’t have what the abuser did; he didn’t have that long-term knowledge of Freddie, insight into every part of his mind to help him decide what the calmest and most rational way to treat him was.

 

He had a sour taste in his mouth. It felt wrong to let him spiral back into that state without even trying to intervene. He didn’t want to dictate Freddie’s life for him, to tell him what was good for him, tell him when he was making a grave mistake, but Freddie clearly gravitated towards the man that did, the man that micromanaged his life. He couldn’t just let Freddie stay with an abuser after what they’d been through, after the panic attacks over small shoves and waking up in the middle of the night with sobs caught in his throat.

 

Jim could recognise where they’d gone wrong. They’d tried so hard to do the right thing that they’d ended up doing the wrong thing, they’d ended up causing resentment when they intended to make him feel loved. Every time he’d held back from kissing Freddie, from touching anywhere other than his shoulder or his waist, he’d made him feel isolated. He’d treated him as though he was broken, as though he needed to be wrapped up in cotton wool and coddled for protection. Freddie had resented him for that, resented him for constantly reminding him of the fact that he was different, a gnomon of the man that he should be.

 

Even trying to protect him, they hadn’t helped him like he’d needed. He needed someone to teach him how to make his own decisions for him, to not get so overwhelmed by every variable of life. He was used to having every decision made for him, what he’d wear, what he’d do, what he’d eat; to be thrown into the throngs of life was unbearably overwhelming.

 

The abuser would ease the burden of his responsibilities, would treat him as a whole person instead of the fragment that everyone else saw him as.

 

He was seeking life, and that’s why he was here, and so drunk at that; he wanted to numb the part of mind that questioned his decisions, that became easily overwhelmed, and to experience what the world would offer when it didn’t know anything about it.

 

Those hands were gripping him so tight that Jim knew he’d have bruises in the morning. Freddie could barely stand. He was so fucking vulnerable like that, and Jim couldn’t stifle the need to know he was safe, that he wouldn’t be exploited that night.

 

His hand found Freddie’s bicep and he tugged him away from the embrace, taking a moment to look over him. He seemed physically smaller when he was next to that man, characterised by a vulnerability and dependency that worried Jim. “Freddie?” He asked, holding on tight when he stumbled backwards.

 

Freddie’s face was sour. “Go away!” He was yelling, although he seemed unaware of his own sound; he’d lost control of his own voice.

 

“Freddie- listen-” Jim started, but he wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. He felt intimidated by the other man, the weight of his own inexperience suddenly crashing down over him. No matter what he said, he wouldn’t compare to the man who controlled the inside of Freddie’s mind. He let his hand slip down Freddie’s arm, feeling the softness of the skin beneath his fingers as he carefully linked their fingers.

 

He was about to speak when Freddie shook his hand away violently. He stumbled backwards, into the arms of the man staring at him: two strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind, holding him up so securely. There was their difference, characterised in two touches. Freddie didn’t want him.

 

“Stop treating me like I’m broken!” Freddie shouted. Jim could see a flash of hurt across his face, as though he hated to think of what had happened. “I’m not a toy to boost your fucking ego!”

 

A kiss was pressed to the back of Freddie’s neck; the man’s grip tightened around him. “Don’t get angry, love.” The voice was so firm, so stable, so sober. He had all the power. Eyes flashed up to meet Jim’s. “You heard him. Fuck off.”

 

And God, did he want to stay. He wanted to tear Freddie from that embrace, to pull him close until he understood what love was.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Freddie didn’t want him. He didn’t want any of them. He wanted this high-flying life, a life of sex and drugs and rock and roll, dancing until dawn and then dancing through the day, high friends in high places.

 

* * *

 

_Why am I bleeding?_

 

_You got in a fight, love. You were drunk._

 

_It hurts._

 

_He was a big guy. I tried to pull you away but you were convinced that you had to see him off._

 

_Why can’t I remember it?_

 

_It’s your memory, love. You’re not well, and you were drunk._

 

_I thought you said I was fine?_

 

_You said that you were sick in your letter._

 

_I forgot._

 

_It’s okay, love._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jim is the man in chapter 11.


	28. White Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A diary entry. A recollection of past events.

_I was twelve when I put on my first pair of ballet shoes. I still remember them, the way that the satin stretched over my toes, just how soft it was against my skin. They were like wearing socks, but more comfortable somehow; the padding was soft underfoot and stopped that ache that I kept getting in my arch. Putting them on was like coming home, like finally being accepted into a community that I’d tried so hard to get into._

 

_Mama could tell that I wasn’t an academic boy. Head in the clouds, paint up to the elbows, humming tunes and twirling around instead of reading and studying the natural world. The prospects for me weren’t great at that time; we were still living in Zanzibar, and they were squeezing us out one by one, through lynching or through coercion. I was too young to understand then, but Mama was scared that Dad and I would be killed: to kill the men was to kill the family. She wanted us to move to India, but she had no real reason for us to go unless it was for me._

 

_I was never going to go to one of those academic schools, made for big boys with big dreams of professionalism and boardrooms. She focused on my technical skill instead: I was strong, artistic, skilled in detailed work. Dad wanted me to try boxing, thought that the combination of me being small and strong would put me in good prospects for the featherweights. I hated that idea, and Mama hated it too, so she convinced me to try dancing._

 

_I was always the only boy in the class. I was the only one without shoes, the one fumbling through the movements because I hadn’t been trained from the age of three like all the girls. So to get those shoes was a big moment for me; it was proof that I’d finally made it, that I was good enough for this to continue. We let Dad think that I was doing boxing classes._

 

_At fourteen, I started at a dance school. I got a little bigger, a lot stronger, a lot more flexible. It started coming naturally to me. I could pick the girls up effortlessly, repeat a routine as though I’d practiced it a hundred times before. Because I’d learned with the girls, I could do things that I didn’t need to be able to do. I’d learned the basics of pointe, although I’d never danced it properly._

 

_It got harder to lie to Dad, but I had a promise to Mama. My school kept us in India, even when the money grew thin and the times got tough. I would dance in the market on a Saturday to earn a few extra coins, to scrounge enough to buy the dinner that night. If Dad knew that I danced, then he would make me leave the family, and that scared me more than anything. I had a duty to Mama, and a duty to Kash._

 

_When I was seventeen, I danced around my bedroom in the middle of the day when everybody else was out. I never had class on a Tuesday, but my weekends were almost full. It was the nature of the work. I practiced a new routine, what would become my audition piece. I choreographed it myself._

 

_When I was seventeen, Dad came home in the middle of the day. He felt humiliated, angry, the emotions swallowing him whole. He came home to find his oldest and only son practicing as best he could in the dining room._

 

_When I was seventeen, Dad belted me for the first time. He’d found the magazines shoved under my bed, and though he’d tried to ignore them, he couldn’t if I was going to flaunt it like this. All his friends had seen me leave the studio, tucked tightly under another boy’s arm._

 

_The welts stayed on my skin for weeks. No one had ever hit me before._

 

_I was screaming, I was crying, I was begging him to stop. I was so sorry, so fucking sorry, so sorry that I wasn’t what he wanted me to be. I was sorry for dancing. I was sorry for everything I’d done to hide it from him. I was sorry for being gay._

 

_Mama heard me from the front gate of our house. She pulled him away, but he was stronger. He grabbed me by the collar and shoved me out through the front door. The neighbours were watching._

 

_“You’re a disgrace.”_

 

_I lay on the grass in the garden, chest heaving with sobs from the pain of the belt. I’d never hurt like that before. I tried to think of the worst pain I’d ever experienced. I once finished a show on a broken ankle. This hurt more than that, because this was emotional._

 

_I stood up. My legs shook beneath me. Mama looked me in the face, and then she slapped me._

 

_“I protected your creativity. I helped you make a life for yourself. You repay me by being a sinner.”_

 

_I was crying again. I was trying to explain what had happened, but there was nothing to explain. I’m gay._

 

_“All I ask is that you go to church, and you repent in the name of our saviour. He’ll fix you. He’ll get rid of this disease.”_

 

_It was the first time that anyone had ever said I was sick. I stared at her._

 

_She shoved a jacket against my chest._

 

_“If you’re going to be like that, you can leave.”_

 

_I’m one of the lucky ones. I didn’t die that day. Homosexuals can be killed without the permission of the dastūr. They’re living demons, corrupted by the devil himself. Society can’t be clean if they mix freely with good people._

 

_When I was eighteen, my parents let me back home. My sexuality, my profession, were well-guarded secrets. My parents started making plans to move back to Zanzibar, to a place where I could be cleaned of the immoral behaviour that I’d picked up in India. I started making plans to move somewhere else._

 

_I applied all over the world. I applied for schools in Milan, New York City, Texas, Moscow, Japan, Germany, Cuba, Saint Petersburg. I didn’t think practically about anything, about language or finance or travel. I just thought about going somewhere where some people might accept me._

 

_I applied for the Royal Ballet School in London._

 

_Every single day, as one by one I got invited for audition, and then got my letters of congratulation, I held out for that letter with an English postmark. I would sit by the letterbox to get the post before anyone else had a chance to find it and throw it away._

 

_The letter came two months after the others. I’d almost settled on moving to New York. A little part of me had been so gutted that I hadn’t even heard back from them, that they’d passed over me without a second thought._

 

_Then I got the letter._

 

_“Upon an excellent recommendation from your current school, we would like to invite you for audition in London on May 19th.”_

 

_I told my parents that I was going to England for treatment. That there was a new scheme that they might cure me of my feelings for other men. They sent me off without a second thought._

 

_I’d never been to England before. It was colder than I expected, but it was a good temperature for dancing. I was used to being too hot to carry out moves properly, lethargic with heat in summer._

 

_While I was there, I met a teacher for the English National Ballet called Paul. I stayed with him for a couple of days, and I fell in love. I’d never found somebody who understood me so clearly. Raised and rejected from a Catholic family, gay, with a love for ballet but a career cut short by injury._

 

_I went home, and I didn’t forget. I put my place in New York on hold._

 

_“Congratulations, we would love to welcome you to the Royal Ballet School to finish the final year of your education.”_

 

His hand ached from how tightly he’d gripped his pen. To write it down was to make sense of it, a diary in hindsight. Looking back at his achievements filled him with warmth. He’d be okay.

 

_“Congratulations, we would love to welcome you to the Royal Ballet to begin your professional career at the level of soloist.”_


	29. Covent Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't hold grudges for too long. Not when it might end like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're getting alarm bells again, kids.

Despite the hustle of the people around him, he stared into the shop window intensely. He didn’t really need to buy his own shoes now that he was a member of the company, but he couldn’t seem to take his gaze from the new Superlative shoes. As the newest, smallest and lightest member, he’d been taken on to try out a possible revolution in the world of ballet. He’d put off buying the shoes for so long, on account of all sorts of excuses, but that had left him here.

 

Standing in the middle of Covent Garden, trying to work out why there were so many different types of pointe shoe.

 

He was drawn to the Superlatives because of their colour. They weren’t so pink toned, they wouldn’t stand out so obviously against the warmth of his skin tone. They were pale, of course - they all were. The manufacturers didn’t seem to consider that it wasn’t just pale little girls that danced.

 

He jumped at the hand on his waist, glancing up quickly.

 

He knew that he should be angry, should push him away and keep him at an arm’s distance so that there was no chance that he could be hurt. Instead, he smiled up at Jim; the man filled him with a warmth that he couldn’t quite explain.

 

“I know that you didn’t want to speak to me.” The familiar voice came quickly. “I just wanted to check that you’re doing okay. You gave us all one hell of a fright, changing your mind so quickly.”

 

The hand hadn’t moved, and Freddie didn’t want it to. “I was drunk.” He said softly. “Don’t listen to anything I say when I’m drunk. It’s like I’m a different person.”

 

Jim was surprised by the hug that followed his words. Something about the interaction tasted sour in his mouth. He was almost too desperate to make amends, to put the blame on himself just so that he could be certain that the situation was under control. He focused on what he could, avoided questions. It reminded him of the first time that they’d met. 

 

He cupped Freddie’s cheek carefully. “Are you okay?” He asked softly, but his words were direct.

 

Freddie let his head loll into that grip; he let himself be held. December was inching closer, only days away, and it felt like so long since he’d had a proper conversation with someone other than Paul. Paul made his head hurt, so predictable in his unpredictability. Paul made his body hurt.

 

The fists were back, and he was frightened. He didn’t know what he wanted. The good times with him were the best, the only person that had ever taken the time to really know him, but the bad times were the worst.

 

He was consoled by how infrequent the bad times were. They used to be a lot worse, but he couldn’t remember that many now. Most of the damage was what he’d done to himself in a moment of blackout, a fall or a fit or something that he didn’t understand but Paul did. 

 

Jim’s thumb was cold against the bruise on his eye; his head was throbbing. Maybe he was okay - he was happy, he was successful, he was loved and treated like a normal person. Maybe he wasn’t okay - the bruises just appeared on his body, he was cold, he was hungry, he was shaking under his paper-thin skin. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted all along?

 

“I don’t know.” Was the only reply that seemed appropriate; he looked up with an apologetic half-smile. 

 

“That’s okay.” Jim smiled back. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

 

Freddie smiled at the irony in the statement. Their whole relationship was built on half-truths and secrets. “You don’t strike me as a Covent kind of guy.” He said quietly, glancing back at those shoes in the window. He could only imagine how much of a fool he would look if he, as a company member, fell in the shop; he was feeling unstable as it was.

 

“Getting a head start on Christmas shopping.” Jim followed his glance to the shoes in the window and smiled. “Do you dance?”   
  
“Secret’s out.” Freddie said playfully. “I lied to you when I told you I was at university. I dance professionally.” It felt so good to tell the truth somehow, as though he was bringing them closer. “Ballet. At The Royal Ballet.”

 

Jim grinned at him. It made so much sense to him; it made sense of every little idiosyncrasy that he had, from the way he sat and stretched out his feet to his habitual walking on his toes. “That’s so cute.” The words escaped his lips before he could help them. “Sorry, sorry - that was inappropriate, I know you’ve got someone else-”

 

Freddie beamed at him, that beautiful shining smile that made Jim feel warm inside. “It’s okay.” He squeezed Jim’s hand carefully. “Do you know anything about ballet shoes?” He looked into the shop window again, at the shoes which hung in the window.

 

“Not a single thing.” Jim wanted to swallow his pride, to get the words out that he knew might bring them closer but also might push them so far away. “But I’ll hold your hand if you don’t want to go in on your own.”

 

It was worth it for the look of joy that crossed Freddie’s face. He threw his arms around Jim’s neck and hugged him close. He took his time to savour the feeling of his arms around him, oh-so-aware that this might be the last time that he got to feel it. He closed his eyes and lifted one foot instinctively, pointing it in that graceful way that Jim had fallen in love with so long ago.

 

“I’d like that.” He murmured shyly, ducking his head down to hide the blush that had fallen across his cheeks.

 

The hand was so secure in his as he walked into the shop, talked to the assistant, and then tried on the Superlatives. Putting them on, he had that same wash of emotion that he’d experienced at twelve; that true feeling of acceptance and community seemed to be embodied in his footwear. He gripped the barre on the wall as he moved from demi-pointe up into pointe: without the proper warm-up and preparation, his feet and ankles protested, but he persisted. He needed to know if these were right.

 

He tried a few basic steps, unaware of the eyes on him from every area of the room. As well as the shirt which loudly proclaimed his school name, he had just been announced as the newest member to be joining the company for their winter season; this was the place of anywhere in the world everyone would recognise his face from the posters. 

 

He didn’t fully commit to the moves, but he turned on one foot and then the other, testing out the weight distribution through the toe box. As he looked up, the world spun suddenly, and he flailed, reaching out to grab onto something.

 

Two strong hands grabbed his waist, keeping him upright.

 

“Freddie?” Jim’s voice was filled with concern again. “Freddie, are you okay?”

 

* * *

 

_ His eyes were closed, but he was vaguely aware of where he was. The room was quiet, his mouth was filled with the taste of metal and his skin was tacky with wet blood. _

 

_ He’d fallen again. _

 

_ This had happened again and again recently, and it was beginning to scare him. He seemed to faint whenever people weren’t around; never at school, never around the others, always home alone. _

 

_ His cheek throbbed and his stomach ached. He’d never felt so ill in his life. _

 

_ He wasn’t sick, he knew, not like he usually got sick. There were no sniffles, no coughing. Instead, he was cold, so cold, and so tired all the time. His skin was thin, dry and cracked; it tore so easily. His feet looked like a murder scene. He bruised so easily, the colours staining his skin. He got headaches all the time, his mouth was always dry no matter how much he drank, and the stomach pains were practically unbearable. _

 

_ The thing that scared him most, though, was the fainting. He never remembered the lead up to the falls, as though he just occasionally completely blacked out without a trigger and without warning. The falls were the worst, because they always hurt him so badly; he’d hit his head off furniture, get his arms trapped under furniture, twist at an awkward angle. _

 

_ He opened his mouth slowly and felt blood trickle down his cheek. His tongue was aching, and so he figured he must have bitten it badly, so badly for it to bleed like this. _

 

_ He was making awful groaning noises at the back of his throat, overwhelmed by the pain, but he couldn’t seem to stop them even when he tried.  _

 

_ He was threatening to fade away again when he heard a key in the lock and a pained gasp. “Freddie?” Paul was gentle, carefully pulling him to sit upright, holding his head up to stop him from choking. “Christ, Fred, what happened?” _

 

_ Freddie just shook his head and Paul ran a soothing hand through his hair. “I’m going to pick you up, okay, love? I’m going to help you, Fred, but I’ve got to get you to the bathroom to clean you up.” _

 

_ The cold cloth was soothing against his skin, but it sent shocks of cold through his body. He was shivering uncontrollably, half from the fall and half from the cold of the angry November evening. “I’m sorry.” Freddie’s voice was slurred from the throbbing in his mouth; the blood trickled as a steady metronome down his chin. _

 

_ “I need you to wash your mouth out, love.” Paul helped him drink a little water and then watched as he spat it back out into the sink.  _

 

_ “Good job.” His voice was so earnest, and Freddie was fading away again. “Freddie, you’re going to be okay.” _


	30. Gravitate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't remember how he got there, but he doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there! (Maybe just under halfway, depending on how well I stick to my plan). I hope you're ready for things to really pick up over the next few chapters (this marks the start of the answers you've been demanding).

Freddie woke up on an unfamiliar sofa and felt panic grip at his throat. He was doing this too often, and one day it would hurt him; he couldn’t keep sleeping with random strangers in an effort to forget about his boyfriend. He needed to stop getting drunk, to have some self-control, to-

 

He heard a voice talking from another room. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry for the random call-” The voice cut off as though it were listening. “I didn’t want you guys to freak out if he didn’t get back on time. Yeah, he’s okay. I met up with him in Covent, and he- yeah, I think he was done with classes for the day- he had a bit of an episode, nearly fainted in a shop. I didn’t know if you guys would be home, so I brought him back to mine just to keep an eye on him.”

 

Freddie glanced around at the room, taking in the heaviness of the blanket over his shoulders and the familiar smells that clung to it. Chamomile, red wine, the softest hint of cigarette smoke. He yawned and stretched out, suddenly feeling as though he never wanted to move from this spot ever again. He curled back up tightly, enjoying how the blanket finally seemed to solve his shivering, and brought it all the way up to his nose.

 

Jim walked into the room and Freddie peeked up from above the hem of the blanket. They looked at each other for a moment before both of them started laughing; Freddie was surprised by how easy he seemed to feel in Jim’s company. “You look like possibly the comfiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Jim commented as he walked over to the sofa; he leaned down and carefully brushed a lock of Freddie’s hair from his face. “How are you feeling?”

 

The feeling of fingers against his skin, so gentle, was so comforting; he let his eyes close heavily. “Tired.” Freddie said honestly, opening his eyes again after a moment to glance at Jim. He was smiling. 

 

“You seemed pretty exhausted earlier on. What can you remember?” He sat down on the floor beside the sofa, covering the spot on Freddie’s back where the blanket had slipped down. 

 

“I met you outside Bloch.” He hummed involuntarily when Jim’s fingers brushed against the swelling around his eye. “We talked, you offered to hold my hand in the shop.”

 

Jim nodded. “What’s the next thing after that?”

 

“Waking up here.” Freddie said quietly. 

 

“That’s good.” Jim murmured. He couldn’t remember the drinks they’d gotten afterwards to stabilise his blood sugars when he’d mentioned that they were probably low, the trauma of trying to keep him standing up on the Piccadilly line at rush hour, Jim carrying him back to the flat. “Can I get you anything? Something to eat?”

 

“I shouldn’t, really.” He yawned and tucked his knees up to his chest. “Some water would be great.”

 

“Why shouldn’t you?” Jim challenged. All he could think of was that cold skin, the weakness of the body next to his as he’d held him up, the jut of his ribs when he’d grabbed his waist.

 

Freddie avoided his eyes. “I’m not really supposed to eat between meals-”

 

“And did you have lunch?” Jim carefully took one of his hands.

 

“No.” He eventually conceded; he still wouldn’t meet Jim’s eyes.

 

“So have something now.” Jim’s voice was firmer this time, and Freddie couldn’t say no.

 

Each orange segment filled his mouth with the richest juice; it was so refreshing, almost feeling like an indulgence. He was nervous about eating, knowing the trouble it would get him in, but it felt so good to quell the perpetual growling of his stomach, to finally satisfy it with the fruits that Jim had brought him.

 

He tucked the blanket around his legs and leaned back against the chest behind him; Jim’s arms wrapped around his waist and he smiled in content. It was the first time that he’d genuinely relaxed in weeks. His perception of Jim had been twisted; he thought he could remember violence, the defining factor of all of his relationships, but now, being held like this, he didn’t trust his thoughts. Freddie held up one of Jim’s hands, curling and uncurling the fingers with a childlike fascination, and felt the low rumble of the laugh dance through him. He was so slow and so gentle, and Freddie felt so calm in his presence.

 

Maybe he was wrong to want to be treated normally. Maybe he didn’t know what ‘normal’ meant. Maybe this was normal.

 

Jim was such a new occurrence for him, to have somebody who treated him in that way. He was so unpredictable, and that terrified him to the core; he shook every principle and every experience that he’d ever had. He didn’t know love like this; he knew love as something predictable, something harsh, something that would pull him to the ground and then leave him there to get back up again. This was gentle, but unpredictable. He didn’t know the arch that the story would take.

 

Get together. Kiss. Happy. Mistake. Hit. Pain. Apologise. Happy. Repeat. Get together. Kiss. Happy. Mistake. Hit. Pain. Apologise. Happy. Repeat. Kiss. Happy. Mistake. Hit. Pain. Apologise. Happy. Repeat. Happy. Mistake. Hit. Pain. Repeat. Happy. Mistake. Hit. Repeat. Mistake. Hit. Repeat. Mistake. Hit. Repeat.

 

Repeat.

 

Repeat.

 

But this wasn’t like that.

 

Freddie didn’t even realise he was half asleep until his head lolled back against Jim’s collarbone. The man instinctively drew him in; between his security and the weight of the blanket, he didn’t have to try hard to curl closer.

 

“Freddie?” Jim’s voice was deepening, that familiar tone of sleep that Freddie knew so well. He never loved sleeping with someone as much as he did with Jim: there was something about the way he was built, the tone of his muscles that were made to support the contours of Freddie’s body. 

 

“Hm?” Freddie’s voice was light, airy, tired. Not sleeping, not eating, living in a world where every night is a night for alcohol, casual sex or violence; it was all so tiring. He rested his cheek against Jim’s neck and he smiled. He was tethered to Earth again.

 

Jim carefully touched his lower arm, tracing the purple-red-wine smudge that was blotted over his skin. “What happened to your arm?” He asked quietly.

 

It was a trick, really, and Freddie should have recognised it; drunk on sleep, not thinking about formulating an excuse, the perfect time to strike a question that most definitely needed a hidden answer.

 

“Bruise.” His lips ghosted against Jim’s skin. Casual intimacy like this felt so good, no expectation for anything more from him. “I bruise easily.”

 

Jim pressed a lazy kiss to the side of Freddie’s head. Maybe he wasn’t thinking logically about how he was treating a taken man, but he felt like Freddie needed it. “How did you get the bruise?”

 

Freddie yawned and brought the blanket back up over his shoulder. “Paul.” He muttered; he didn’t say any more. He didn’t need to.

 

_ Find each other. Kiss. Find each other again. Sleepover. Wash hair. Sleepover. Picnic. Push away. Find each other. _

 

_ Gravitate towards one another like the planets in their orbits, never close enough but never too far to see.  _

  
“You’ll be okay.” Freddie had heard those words echoed by so many people, but the ending made his heart jump with excitement. “ _ Sheereen-am. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shoutout to every lovely person that has commented on this fic (especially to the person that called Freddie 'tiny Freddie' and the person who asked how you break someone out of their own mental hell - I haven't stopped thinking about these comments) - thank you so much for the wonderful amount of support on this fic; we're the fourth biggest jimercury fic, which is just incredible!


	31. Fluorescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he'd finally working out what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My internet stopped working just as I was about to upload this so I'm using my hotspot for all of you you better appreciate it

He woke up warm, safe, happy. He woke up when his cheek bumped against another’s collarbone, their nose buried in his hair, arms keeping him close. A soft breath, one of interrupted sleep, blew warmth across the top of his head. Freddie smiled, curling instinctively closer to the man that he always seemed to gravitate towards. All the lies, fables, allegories in the world hadn’t managed to convince him that Jim was bad, that he was trying to hurt him, that he was self-interested and just looking to exploit Freddie’s youth and talent for all his own benefits. 

 

The television hummed faintly through his sleep-hazed mind, a familiar tune that he could recognise from somewhere. He reached up and rubbed one of his eyes, glancing momentarily at the clock - nearing seven o’clock, at least an hour since he’d fallen asleep. He let his gaze fall to the television, and a wash of pride came through him suddenly; they were showing a winter production! Romeo and Juliet, last danced a few weeks ago, and Freddie would maybe catch a glimpse of himself-

 

The camera focused in on a solo in the chorus, and Freddie was lost in his own beauty. He twisted to watch the little screen properly, taking in just how good he looked on stage; he was so accustomed to picking apart every little piece of his performance, every part of his appearance, and it felt so good to be proud of himself again. It felt so good to watch himself dance like that, after everything; it felt so fucking good to know that he could look like that even when his world was falling down around him.

 

That was an indefatigable happiness in his bones as he stood up carefully, trying not to wake Jim. He was the strangest cocktail of emotions in the world: he felt happy, he felt safe, he felt loved and wanted and proud and talented and beautiful and  _ fluorescent _ . He was luminous, a gorgeous bright light in the dimness of the November evening, the prettiest and the shiniest and the most gorgeous little twirling thing that had ever existed.

 

His feet found the steps instinctively as he listened to the tinniness of the music coming from the awful little speakers. He danced down the hallway, proud of how quiet his feet were on the cold tiles that lined the entranceway; he turned professionally in his little trainer socks, almost kicking his foot against the large sideboard and ducking his leg at the last second to avoid hitting his toes.

 

He hadn’t felt this happy in his whole life. This was where he was meant to be, he was sure: he was meant to be in this house, with this man, a pretty little ballerina with a shoe collection to rival Cinderella’s. He was meant to wake up, fuzzy-headed from how good his sleep had been, to drink tea and to eat breakfast with his lover, to have a soft kiss pressed to the side of his head before he took the Piccadilly line to work. It wasn’t being babied, it was being loved - he wasn’t patronising Freddie, wasn’t trying to take advantage of him. He was being taken advantage of by the man who hit him when he didn’t deserve it.

 

And fuck, he didn’t fucking deserve it!

 

The rosiness of rebellion warmed his cheeks and he looked at himself in the mirror by the front door. His cheeks were flushed, lips pink, and his eyes were alive. They were so incredibly bright, so full of joy and that naive optimism that had spurred him to London in the first place.

 

He wasn’t about to let that spirit be dampened by someone else.

 

He flicked the switch on the kettle and listened to the soft bubble of the water for a few moments as it heated it. He searched for a mug, choosing a baby blue one with ‘sweetie’ written on the side in white lettering - a gimmick gift from when Jim’s friends found out he was gay, Freddie was sure. The thought made him smile. People here would accept him, they would accept a singing ballerina, a gay immigrant, unapologetically himself.

 

He could be whatever the fuck he wanted to be.

 

He was feeling giddy with happiness, with the sheer relief of finally having begun to work things out in his mind. He twirled around the kitchen to reach the fridge, standing on his toes to reach the milk on the top shelf. There were still so many untied loose ends - how would he leave Paul? Why did he keep fainting? Was he sick? Would Jim want him back?

 

Would Jim want him back?

 

Jim watched from the doorway with a degree of confused amusement. He hadn’t intended to be quiet, but Freddie was so obviously lost in his own thoughts that it hadn’t taken much for him to go unnoticed. He was content with just watching as he danced, taking the time to appreciate just how beautiful this boy - this boy, who had stumbled into his life on a dull Saturday evening and had proceeded to light up his existence - how beautiful he really was. There wasn’t a single thing that he could criticise as he watched; though small, he extended out into shapes of the most gorgeous, long lines, each emphasising the point of a sharp elbow or the clean line of the column of his throat.

 

Jim’s life had been so mediocre before, following the same routine week by week: working, going out, meeting someone, fucking, being shoved out the door without a second thought. It was tiring, but more than anything, it was boring. It was almost a strange, corrupted relief that Freddie had never tried anything more sinful than a kiss on the lips: he knew that Freddie wanted him, not just his body, wanted every part of his personality and character that others never stuck around long enough to discover.

 

He walked forwards as Freddie froze, one hand poised on the milk bottle, as though he’d just found a sour thought in a flood of honey-sweet possibilities. He let himself be a little more forward, testing the waters, dipping one toe into the expansive sea of the distance between them. Two hands rested themselves on Freddie’s hips, enjoying the feeling of another body so close to him; he propped his chin on top of Freddie’s head. “Enough water for two mugs?” He asked softly.

 

The tension seemed to melt from Freddie’s body. Of course Jim would want him. Of everything he knew of Jim, he knew that this man wouldn’t play around with him, press kisses to knuckles and stay up until the early hours of the morning just to push him around. What would he push him around for, even? For power? For dominance? To feel superior?

 

Freddie felt so safe in those arms. Even in the softest moments of casual intimacy with Paul, there was an underlying fear, an acknowledgement that every little movement characterised and perpetuated their power imbalance, the dominance of Paul over every jurisdiction of his life. A gesture like this, a chin on top of the head, was meant to make him feel small, helpless, trapped. 

 

With Jim, it almost felt fun. Freddie giggled sweetly and turned to Jim, leaning up to kiss his lips. Maybe it was bad, to kiss him before he’d properly sorted the situation, but he couldn’t stop himself now that he knew what he wanted.

 

“There’s always enough for two, darling.” Freddie said softly, Jim’s eyes following his lips when he pulled away. The gesture was so enticing, and Freddie was leaning in again, was being the one to kiss him so sweetly, to initiate it between them.

 

_ This is me. This is who I am. Take me or leave me. _

 

He’d worry about the tears and tantrums later. He would bleed dry and clean it up a thousand times over just to have these moments with Jim. He’d go through any number of aches and pains, the knowledge of being sexually assaulted, just to be held like this. He would be glassed, have his throat slashed, have his hair pulled until it tore out just to feel these kisses.

 

Just to feel loved.


	32. Letters Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amends and secrets shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lily, write tell me I'm an angel, I tell myself. You haven't updated it in ages, I tell myself. People don't just read Fluorescent, I tell myself. Then I proceed to write a long-ass chapter of fluorescent.
> 
> Also 40,000 words?

_ Hello, darling. I’m sorry it’s been so long since you’ve heard from me, The world has been a crazy whirlwind these last few weeks, and between the rehearsals, the shows, the late night coffees and sudden bouts of inspiration, I’ve somehow forgotten to take the time to write to you. _

 

_ There was something else occupying my time too, darling, and you’ll have to humour me a little. I’ve met someone. I know what you’re thinking, oh God, what’s he doing to himself this time, who is it that’s going to snatch his heart and then leave him to clean up the tears by himself with a pint of ice cream and some sad movie rerun. But this is different, darling. You’ve met him before. _

 

_ Humour me, please. Pretend as though you’ve never met the man before, as though he’s a totally new and novel presence in my life. Humour me, darling, and you’ll realise how I feel. _

 

_ I know I stopped talking to you so abruptly, so you probably think that I think I’m too haughty now I’m an artiste, that I’m revolving in all those exciting circles that drink whiskey in Soho bars and spend their evenings divided between the opera house and the strip club. It wasn’t like that at all, darling, and I’m still trying to make sense of it all in my mind.  _

 

_ I let myself fall into his traps, you see - it’s my fault, darling, I know it is. I let him corrupt me, change everyone’s perceptions of me, and then got upset when everyone treated me differently. I let him make me into a victim, and then I got upset when everyone treated me so carefully, as though I were delicate like fine china or thin glass. I let him convince me that I was unhappy, that I didn’t want to be treated like that, that I wanted a life defined by hard and fast: sex, drugs and alcohol to numb myself from my deep knowledge that I wasn’t happy with him, either. _

 

_ I wasn’t happy being treated like that, I won’t lie to you. I hated how everyone tiptoed around me. But I was so vulnerable then, darling, and I don’t blame any of you for treating me like that. I would’ve treated myself like that; I wish I had, I wish I had been kinder to myself as I’d started to heal. Maybe if I’d been kinder, hadn’t forced myself into doing much too much, much too quickly, then I wouldn’t have fallen for his traps a second time. _

 

_ But I also wasn’t happy with him. It was a month, darling, a short little month that stretched from a week before Halloween to the end of November; I didn’t see any of you in that time. I devoted myself to him, to being the perfect little housewife in the hopes that this time, I could make things work. I let him have me again because he convinced me that he wouldn’t treat me like a victim. He got inside my head, fed me full of self-doubt, reminded me that I was sick. He used that sickness to control me. _

 

_ Does any of this make any sense? _

 

_ I’ve lost a lot of that month in my mind. I can’t remember much. I’m sorry for missing your birthday. I think I was lost in the drugs at that time, the cocaine or the cannabis or the ketamine or something that left me sleepy and heavy and tired and missing the rest of the world. I worked my absolute hardest to destroy myself for a month, and he encouraged me every step of the way. I smoked even though I knew it would blacken my lungs, I skipped rehearsals when I woke up heavy and lethargic, I didn’t eat because he said it made me beautiful, I slept with random men when he wasn’t looking to try and combat this fucking dread of sex that seems to root itself in my stomach. _

 

_ I still don’t know what’s real. I’ve started to work some things out, and that’s comforting at least. I know that he hits me. It’s not bad, not really, just the occasional slap or kicks on the shin; he’s never tried to beat me up, never done anything really bad to me. I made a lot of things up, my brain filling in the gaps when I lost the memories, and I made a lot of things worse than their reality.  _

 

_ A few days ago, I was in Covent Garden. I was looking for some new shoes, ones to practice with before my audition in a few weeks’ time. You know what I’m like, always getting lost in my own little world when I’m doing these things.  _

 

_ Jim came up behind me, and he was so caring, and so gentle, and suddenly I realised that maybe he wasn’t trying to patronise me, baby me. He was trying to look after me, to work out why I was so cold and so weak and so shaky.  _

 

_ I fainted in the shop, and he took me home. It might be the best night of my life, darling, though I know that maybe that’s just my inner romantic. That night, he let me sleep in his bed, instead of on the floor of the lounge. He let me do whatever I wanted while I was there, and he didn’t watch over me to see what I was doing. The shower I took was so long, and it started to thaw out my bones. He cooked me dinner. _

 

_ I woke in the middle of the night, and I don’t think I’ve ever cried that had in my life. I was so scared, darling, now that I knew what I wanted; I was so scared of what I’d have to do to get it. It was just tears and tears and tears, and I was cramming my hand over my mouth to be quiet, trying to get out of the bed when I had no idea where I was going, when it was dark and I couldn’t see because I was crying too hard. I’d had a nightmare, and I was holding onto those images in my head, and I was panicking and crying and suddenly I was wishing that I was back with him because at least then I’d have the drugs to numb it and then it would all be okay and I would go back to being happy- _

 

_ I fell over when I tried to get out of bed, and I knew I was being too loud, and that was making me panic more because I didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face when he realised how fucked up my head is. I didn’t want to see how annoyed he’d be because I’d woken him up by being ridiculous. I couldn’t breathe, darling, and I know it sounds ridiculous now, but I was choking and making these awful spluttering sounds as though my lungs were filled with water and the crying was getting so loud and I didn’t know where the bathroom was so that I could lock myself in until I’d calmed down- _

 

_ I got halfway to the door of the bedroom, crawling pathetically like some kind of deformed creature, when he woke up. I jammed my fist in my mouth to try and stop the sounds and I hoped that he’d just go back to sleep, but he didn’t. He got out of bed and he found me and he pulled me close and he brought the blankets around my shoulder again because I was shivering and bone-cold and he didn’t want me to catch a chill. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t lie and pretend that he understands like everyone else does, he just held me close and rocked me back and forth until suddenly I felt like I could breathe again. And I did, these big, awful, shuddering gasps, but the tightness in my chest eased off and I realised it was okay, I was okay, it was a nightmare. I realised I didn’t have to be frightened of him. It was okay to wake him up when I needed him, when I couldn’t get rid of the thoughts on my own. _

 

_ I hope I send this letter to you. If I send you this letter, it means that I’m safe, that I’ve gotten away from him and I can focus on being myself and being happy. If I don’t send it to you, it’ll probably be because I’m dead or in hospital when I try to leave. I sound so deadpan, darling, but I assure you that it terrifies me. I just can’t keep living in that way anymore. I’d rather die trying to be happy. _

 

_ I hope that you’re doing well. I hope you’re having the time of your life, that you haven’t been worrying about me. You’ve always been the better brother, the smart one, the protective one, the one that I go to with my problems. _

 

_ I love you, aziz-am. _

 

_ Freddie x _

 

He sealed the envelope tightly and stuffed it in a drawer as he heard the turn of a key in the lock. He smiled sweetly as Paul came in, offering a soft kiss and the help to remove his jacket, full of earnest questions about how his day had been.

 

* * *

 

_ It’s great to hear that you’re all doing so well - I can’t wait to come over and see you all again! As much as I love London, I miss our little local so much. I’ll be over in a few months’ time and we’ll drink until dawn in that little pub garden by the river, and we’ll stumble home in the morning twilight. _

 

_ I know you always want exciting anecdotes about city life, and I know I usually disappoint on that front, but I have got some amazing news, something that you’ve been waiting to hear for a long time! The story’s something of a long one, so I’ll start at the beginning - I hope you’ve got the time to sit down and read it. _

 

_ There’s a bar in Covent Garden that I’ve been frequenting a lot recently. The gay scene here is incredible, but the venues are somewhat limited, and a lot of the bars are sleazy or the buildings double up as strip clubs. But there’s a bar in Covent called Heaven, a few streets away from the Opera House where we saw Giselle. It’s not a league above the others, but it’s definitely of a higher standard. _

 

_ When I was in there, around the middle of September, I got a little silly and a little drunk and I decided to hit on this guy that was way out of my league. The tiniest little thing, honestly, I was slightly worried that I was cradle-snatching! Around five-six, slim and toned, long hair and long eyelashes and a tendency to wear silk on any occasion. He was dancing in the middle of the floor on his own, wine-drunk, and I had to offer to buy him another drink.  _

 

_ One thing led to another, and I was kissing him. I don’t know whether I fell for him then, but I didn’t stop thinking about him for a long time. He was pulled away by another guy, a boyfriend - I know, I know - and I left, trying to not to be disappointed. You know what I’m like when I get my hopes up. I have to admit, I felt awful when the boyfriend proceeded to slap him, but I wasn’t about to get involved in some domestic, so I thought I’d stay away.  _

 

_ I tried to not think about him anymore. It was just a silly little drunken kiss, we’ve all done them against better judgement. _

 

_ Then, a few weeks later, he comes to the club and he’d covered in blood. I couldn’t leave him like that, when he was looking like he was so desperate to be looked after. So I cleaned him up, and I gave him my jacket because he was shivering, and I took him back to his friends’ house when he was tired. _

 

_ He didn’t want me to leave when we got there, so I stayed the night with him, and I looked after him. I didn’t ask what had happened. I didn’t feel like it was my place. _

 

_ We got so close over those few weeks. I thought we were about to be official, we were more than close enough to be, but I didn’t want to push him into anything when he was so vulnerable. Maybe I was saving my own ass too. I didn’t want to be some kind of rebound.  _

 

_ He pushed me away at the last second. Early Sunday morning, woke up together and he all-but pushed me out of the house. Told me he didn’t want me. That he loved someone else. I spent three weeks cleaning up tears, tending to wounds, arranging movie marathons and watching him sketch and going out with him when he was scared to be on his own, to be told that he didn’t want me. It fucking hurt, and I was determined to just say fuck it, to find someone else and rebound and get over him quicker than anything. _

 

_ Something about it just tasted sour, and I couldn’t leave it alone.  _

 

_ I met him again in Covent Garden a few days ago. I saw him from across the street, but I had to talk to him as soon as I saw him, just to know that he was happy and healthy. I didn’t care about what he thought about me. _

 

_ He was so sweet to me. I was expecting him to yell at me, like the last time I’d tried to approach him, but he opened up and was honest to me about his career and why I’d found him peering in the window of a ballet shop. _

 

_ I know. I’ve come to London, and I’ve fallen in love with a ballet dancer. Suddenly, my life has become an awful teenage movie. _

 

_ When we were in the shop, he just collapsed suddenly. No warning sign. It was like watching someone’s brain short circuit, as though a connection had gone wrong somewhere and his whole body had forgotten how to function. I grabbed him, I held him upright, I sat him down and helped to bring him back around. _

 

_ I couldn’t just let him go home like that. I brought him back to mine, and we fell asleep on the sofa together. When I woke up, I found him dancing around the kitchen whilst making tea, and I don’t think I’ll ever unsee it. Every single morning that I go to make myself tea, I’ll be reminded of the way that he twirled to grab the milk. It was possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.  _

 

_ He even stayed the night with me, and let me look after him when he woke up from a nightmare. _

 

_ I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve found someone. _

 

_ We’re not official, and so don’t expect photos or visits or anything too quickly. I’m taking it at its own pace. He’s clearly not well, and I’m not going to push it.  _

 

_ That being said, it feels so good to have someone to wake up next to. I’m trying to decide which drawer can become his, and which side of the wardrobe. _

 

_ I love you, Ma. I hope this finds you all well. _

 

_ Jim x _

 

He sealed the envelope and attached the stamp before popping it in the tray by the door. He’d post it in the morning.


	33. Chocolate Buttons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For better, for worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First italics is a flashback, second is looking forwards.

He reached up, letting the stretch pull in each of the muscles in his core, arching his back ever so slightly. He tilted his head up, aligning his posture perfectly, and pointed one foot, the other taking his weight. He smiled despite himself, his mood having carried forward from the night before; being woken up by being peppered in kisses filled him with a beautiful mixture of hope and desire for the future.

 

He was playing a dangerous game, but he considered it worth it. He had three homes in one, and he was using them against one another to constantly be in two places at once. When he should’ve been at Paul’s, he was tucked up in Jim’s arms, saying that he was asleep alone in his bedroom in Cremorne Road. It was just so easy to pretend that rehearsals were stretching out during show season, to accidentally slip an extra evening into his schedule, to make excuses for having to be up and out early in the morning and not wanting to wake his lover from the noise.

 

It wasn’t as easy as just leaving. He had to untangle himself from the web first, move enough of his things into different houses that he’d never have to try and step foot in that place again. He couldn’t just leave in the middle of the night and pretend nothing had ever happened. He wanted to be an adult about it, to be mature and sensible. He hoped that Paul would feel the same way. He didn’t want to leave in a ring of fire, one that would leave him vulnerable to the same treatment over and over and over again. He wanted to leave with his head held high, the past put aside but not forgotten, there to serve as a reminder of why he needed to be an active participant in his own life.

 

He swept down to the floor, the back of his hand brushing the polished laminate. Warm-ups were his favourite time of day, when he was still a little heavy from a good night’s sleep, when it felt so good to progress from lazy stretches to the sharp focus needed for his later classes. He knew he’d have to sharpen up soon, as his ballet exam approached him quickly: he needed to take the time to practice later when he had the hour in between the end of his classes and the show that evening. The transition from the school to the company was strange; he was still required to take his classes to completion, despite already having and performing with a professional contract. He split his time between art classes, school ballet classes and company rehearsals, constantly juggling the priority of which would come first in his mind.

 

He’d noticed his performance improving over the last few days, the nights that he’d spent with Jim instead of with Paul. Every aspect of his life with Paul was designed to make him feel small, to feel weak and unable to fight his own corner. He didn’t eat to weaken him physically. He slept on the floor so that he didn’t sleep well; it was cold, it was hard, it was uncomfortable pressing into his bones. Those cigarettes pressed between his lips burned holes in his lungs, made it harder for him to catch his breath when he danced.

 

Freddie loved the feeling of waking up in the arms of another man. He loved having those big, heavy blankets to warm him up when the temperatures hit freezing. He loved wearing Jim’s big shirts to bed. He loved tiptoeing around the kitchen to make the tea first thing, feet shoved into fluffy slippers to keep his toes warm. 

 

Those good nights, good meals, good company, reinvigorated his spirit. As the pace of the class increased, Freddie kept up easily; he was well-fuelled, a snack and lunch in his bag, even a packet of chocolate buttons that Jim insisted he should have because he worked so hard.

 

Jim had changed the way that he treated him, too, and Freddie was so thankful for it. He’d been unbearably restricted before, stopping himself from doing so much as touching his hips. He wasn’t pushy in the slightest, but Freddie enjoyed their moments of casual intimacy together. He dragged his hand over his collarbone as he extended it outward, feeling the warmth of the love bite on his skin, and his cheeks warmed ever so slightly. It was so dangerous; Freddie knew that Paul would see it, but the irrational side of his brain had overpowered the rational and so there sat a red mark. 

 

_ Freddie hummed with content as Jim kissed down his neck, taking the time to press butterfly kisses to each individual bruise or scar that littered his throat. His hands skimmed over Jim’s front, pressing against those muscles that he so adored, taking the time to feel that power under his hands. _

 

_ He groaned when Jim pressed his lips to a spot on his collarbone, but quickly shut himself up as a blush rose on his cheeks. Although this was new, it felt so familiar with Jim, and that feeling of dread hadn’t materialised despite his sobriety. He knew he could trust him to not expect any more.  _

 

_ Jim pressed a soft kiss to his lips and Freddie followed it eagerly. “This okay?” He asked roughly, fingers tracing the area that he wanted to mark. _

 

_ “Please.” Freddie was breathless as Jim carefully kissed and licked and bit a mark into the skin; Freddie tilted his head back absentmindedly, loving how it felt to be loved in this way, so slowly. _

 

_ It was a stupid move, and he acknowledged that from the beginning, but he was determined that he wouldn’t let himself be distracted by the thoughts of Paul when he was with Jim. _

 

The new shoes were tight on his feet, not quite his usual shoes, but the shoes that were in his pigeon-hole when he went to retrieve a new pair. He pointed his toe, admiring for a moment how close the split-sole clung to his skin.

 

He stood up on demi-pointe, and then he rolled over onto the front of his toes, taking the time to stretch out after a few hours of break. He watched himself in the mirror as he stretched out his legs again, getting the muscles warm and open again for his practice. He smiled as he leaned backwards, watching the way that the shirt rode up around his hips; he looked at his clean-cut stomach, the strength of those muscles as they brought him back to centre, and he smiled.

 

He leaned down to adjust his shoe and shucked his heavy sweater off quickly, leaving just the loose t-shirt and black tights to cover his body. He missed the click of the lock on the door to the studio, the quiet groan of a heavy door reluctant to open, the brief jet of fluorescent light coming from the corridors into his little space. He stood by the record player in the corner, thumbing through the vinyls, when a hand rested on his shoulder.

 

“I’ve grown accustomed to your face.” The voice laughed, picking out a sleeve to look at some of the other song titles. “That track sounds fun. You should use that one.”

 

“Kash.” Freddie said softly, watching as she broke into a smile.

 

“C’mere, dumbo.” She said softly, wrapping her arms around him so tightly. Freddie rested his nose in her hair, taking in again that scent of familiarity and comfort; it felt as though his orbit had been spinning out of turn so uncontrollably, and now he was coming back to centre. He took a deep breath, running his fingers over her back subconsciously, so genuinely elated to see her again.

 

“How did you-” He started his question, but the stem led to so many things that he wanted to know. How did she know he was here? How did she get in here? How had she already forgiven him for ignoring her? 

 

Kash pulled away ever so slightly to look over him; the bruising around his lips looked painful, but he looked much healthier than she had been expecting. “I saw Jim.” She looked so proud of herself, and Freddie couldn’t help but smile involuntarily at the sound of his lover’s name. “He told me you were in practices today, but that you had a solo block between five and six. You know, it’s not hard to convince people that I’m your sister. They get confused about the surname, but we look too similar.”

 

Freddie grinned and stepped back a little. “I’m happy to see you, darling.” He spoke earnestly; there was no one he was more comfortable with than Kash. “How are you doing?”

 

Kash poked him playfully, finger skimming over the love bite on his collarbone. “I’m cross with you.” She said playfully. “First you disappear on me, then you miss my birthday, then you leave Paul and get back with Jim and you don’t even tell me about it?”

 

Kash looked so good in the early evening sunshine, the gold bringing out the highlights in her hair and the high points on her cheekbones; Freddie snapped the photo in his mind to paint at a later date. His final project was on sunshine, and the effects of sunshine on the figure: he was trying to feature paintings of the people that meant the most to him.

 

“It’s not quite that simple.” He said after a pause and a moment to consider his response. “I’m with both of them at the moment.” He quickened the pace of his voice at Kash’s arched eyebrow. “Jim knows. I’m trying to find the right time to leave Paul, when he’s not going to try and hurt me for it.”

 

Kash started to smile. “But you are with Jim? That’s true?” She asked hopefully.

 

“Yes, darling, I am.” He chuckled at the look of joy on her face. “I think he’s the one.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ Freddie fanned his hot cheeks; he glanced up at Paul, who was towering over him. He was trying not to cry, afraid of how he would react to tears. _

 

_ “I told you to take today off!” He shouted. Freddie’s lower lip was already split, the skin tainted with blood; the punch had been hard, designed to hurt, designed to be remembered.  _

 

_ He let out the smallest whimper when Paul grabbed him by the hair, pulling Freddie upright and forcing him to look at him. The pain bloomed across his head, and the world was already beginning to go fuzzy around the edges. He hoped that he could pass out before it got too bad; he clung onto the knowledge that if the pain got too bad, he’d fade away. “Answer me!” He shouted in Freddie’s face. _

 

_ “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” Freddie’s voice was dull, obsequious.  _

 

_ Paul laughed harshly. “So you knew that, and you decided to ignore me.” He drawled, tightening his fist in Freddie’s hair until his breath caught on a sob.  _

 

_ “I’m sorry-” Freddie’s voice was coming out more desperate, but he was determined to keep control. He couldn’t just keep submitting. “I have an exam, I have to practice, I have to train-” As a counterpoint to his voice, Freddie finally looked up to meet his eyes. It was an act of defiance. _

 

_ It was definitely the wrong thing to do.  _

 

_ Paul pushed him away; he fell backwards, hitting his head against the stairs at the bottom. He let out a low groan as pain rushed through his skull and spat blood from where he’d bitten his tongue, it landing on the bottom of Paul’s trouser leg. “Fuck you.” Freddie’s gasp was agonised as pain flared through his ribs; his fingers felt for something to grip onto. His chest heaved with little suffering breaths. _

 

_ “Excuse me?” Paul crossed his arms and smirked at the sight of Freddie so badly injured. “What did you just say to me?” _

 

_ “Fuck you.” Freddie repeated louder, but he curled in on himself; the pain was unendurable. It felt like someone was torturing him, tearing his skin off in little pieces and snapping each of his bones in turn. He could tell almost immediately that something had broken, a rib or his sternum or - he whimpered at the thought - maybe even a vertebra. _

 

_ He barely even registered Paul walking closer, but he screamed when a boot connected with his ribs; the wind was knocked out of him and he couldn’t grab his breath. That was bad, that was awful - that was cruel. Freddie curled up as tightly as he could, the sharp pain throbbing through his chest, shutting his eyes tightly as heard Paul’s footsteps walking away and out the front door. _


	34. Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hates the words, but he knows them well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda weird and I don't know if I like it but hey it propels us forward.

_So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?_

_So you think you can love me and leave me to die?_

_Oh, baby - you can't do this to me, baby._

_I've just got to get out - I've just got to get right out of here._

 

* * *

 

 

Jim budged the door open with his shoulder, the key in the stiff lock barely aiding in getting the old, polished wood open. He fell to his knees as soon as he got in, grabbing onto Freddie’s hand. “C’mon, sweetheart, look at me-” Freddie’s voice had been pained on the phone, and Jim could tell he was in agony. “Darling, it’s okay, I’m here.” He said in response to the whimper. He was hiding his face in his arms, his knees tucked up to his chest, trying to protect himself by curling up as small as he could.

 

“Freddie, princess, come on.” He whispered. “It’s okay, you’ll be okay, I’m going to help you.” He looped one arm under Freddie’s knees, the other under his shoulder blades. He picked him up, almost wincing at the sound of Freddie’s groan.

 

Freddie rested his head against Jim’s shoulder, heaving out painful breaths. “Jim.” He whispered, his words wheezy and quiet; he fisted a hand in Jim’s shirt to keep him clutching to reality.

 

“It’s me, darling.” Jim’s voice was so gentle; Freddie closed his eyes in content. “No, Freddie, don’t fall asleep on me.” He murmured, carefully carrying him out to the car. “Don’t fall asleep on me, honey, I need to know that you’re awake and you’re with me.”

 

He lay down Freddie in the passenger seat, encouraging him to uncurl ever so slightly. “Should I take you to the hospital?” Jim asked, but Freddie shook his head tiredly.

 

“Just take me home.” He said softly; the pain was making his head spin and he didn’t want to pass out in the car. “Brian’s.” He was longing for the painkillers he had there, strong ones: an essential for a dancer, perpetually broken.

 

* * *

 

“Can you come with me?” The question was unexpected. Jim was laying in Freddie’s bed, desperately in need of sleep and a shave; he’d been up half the night worrying that Freddie was going to stop breathing. He’d taken too many of those painkillers before Jim had been able to stop him, and between the injury and that, he’d been afraid for Freddie’s life.

 

He was surprised by how Freddie had managed to make himself look fresh and awake that morning: the concealer over his mouth was expertly applied, blending into the warmth of his skin tone to make it look totally even; he’d washed and brushed out his hair, and it had fallen naturally in messy waves around his shoulders; his t-shirt was black, tight, no danger of it riding up or showing anything he didn’t want.

 

Jim could only imagine the bruising hidden under the thin fabric.

 

“Sweetheart, you need to slow down.” He stood up tiredly, going over to Freddie. He was manic, and Jim could tell he was panicked. He was speaking too quickly, words overlapping one another in their rush to leave his mouth. He’d lost track of the time, of the day, and he didn’t understand why Jim had been so lethargic.

 

He rested a hand against Freddie’s side: the skin was burning up, so hot to touch, and Freddie flinched away just from the lightest of touches. “Darling, you’ve probably broken something. You need to rest, else you’ll make it worse.”

 

The rhetoric of ballet was the same, and Jim was beginning to learn it by heart. No matter what happened, no matter how badly it hurt, you persisted until you forgot the pain or you collapsed. Freddie was weak as it was, and he didn’t want him to collapse when he wouldn’t be able to help him.

 

Freddie opened his mouth to protest, but Jim carefully rested a finger over his lips. “It’s a Sunday, Freddie. You don’t have rehearsals today.” The tension seemed to sag from Freddie’s shoulders and he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “So let’s get some more rest, and we’ll go and see the doctor later.”

 

“I can’t go and see the doctor.” Freddie let himself be manhandled towards the bed. “I can’t, I can’t make up a good excuse for this. I can’t let them know what happened.”

 

Jim sat opposite him and took one of Freddie’s hands. “Then tell them the truth, sweetheart.” He said softly.

 

“I can’t.” Freddie repeated.

 

“And why not?” Jim challenged him in such subtle ways to explain his reasoning, to explain what his brain thought was true and what was false; saying it out loud often made Freddie realise how ridiculous his words really were.

 

Not this time. Freddie was sure of his words. “Men don’t get abused.”

 

The words kicked Jim in the stomach. He moved forwards quickly, catching Freddie’s other hand. He was so stuffed full of lies, of complete and utter bullshit fed to him by partners and by parents and by a society that taught him that whatever he did was wrong.

 

“Sweetheart-” He started, but he didn’t know how to continue. He was all-too-familiar with the words that he was saying. Being taught that it was his fault, that he didn’t know how to look after himself properly, that he let himself be used and abused and manipulated.

 

“It’s true.” Freddie said quietly. “Men don’t let themselves be treated like that.”

 

_Freddie Mercury (Farrokh Bulsara), Patient No. 2037_

 

_System of violent injuries attributed to non-violent causes. Upon appointment, initiate domestic violence questioning. Injuries include:_

_Broken rib_

_Broken nose_

_Broken collarbone_

_Bruised lung_

_Deep laceration to right anterior_

_Deep laceration to base of throat_

_Crushed fingers_

_Broken ankle_

_Hairline fracture to skull_

_Sexual assault (logged under incident no. 743, 854, 992)_

 

_Please continue to log incidents with pictures where possible for potential future case. Take clothes for forensics if necessary. Upon visit, isolate for questioning._


	35. English Breakfast Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation between new friends, and a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what! The dance that I'm describing here is a real thing, and you can see it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Axbiz7JYCEQ&t=361s
> 
> Italics and non-italics happen consecutively.

Jim’s toes were warm in Freddie’s socks. The tiles on the floor of Brian’s kitchen were unforgiving, and Freddie had insisted that he wear the fluffy socks if he was going to hang around the house that day. He’d protested, knowing that Freddie wore them between rehearsals, but Freddie had pulled out a pair of dance socks and shushed his worries. He’d felt awful, letting him go that day, but Freddie wasn’t having any of his attempts to keep him at home. Really, Jim admired him, admired his commitment and love of his job, but he wished that he would slow down sometimes; especially now, when he woke up in the middle of the night to hear those little suffering breaths against his chest.

 

_ He moved gorgeously, his character clearly debauched; his hair hung in his face, dark against his pale lips. It was the first time he’d had the stage makeup on. He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her close to him, and used her struggling to bring her into a lift over his shoulder. He stretched upwards, wanted to groan with the agony, but he held her there in strong arms as she turned; he panted out tortured, agonised, short breaths to stop it from overwhelming him. _

 

It was surprising how comfortable he’d become in the presence of the others without Freddie. Maybe they were united by their concern over him, by the burden they shared of trying to look after him; maybe they were just united by their good natures. He hummed a good morning as Roger walked into the kitchen, the man shuffling with sleep still weighing him down. He instinctively reached for another mug to use the extra water he’d boiled into a coffee for Roger. “Good night?” He asked with a small smile playing on his lips.

 

_ The second session of the auditions were much harder than the first. The first was the same as them all, a short section of dancing something you’d choreographed. The second, however, was like a workshop, taking a small section of the dance, learning it and performing it to the best of your abilities. Freddie had never wanted a role more than he wanted this. He staggered across the stage, playing up to the intoxication as best he could, and heaved her onto his front, laying his cheek across her back; he furrowed his brow, using the pain from his core to demonstrate the mental anguish of the character. _

 

Roger laughed tiredly and took the mug. The warmth bit through his cold fingers; Brian was frugal with the heating and wouldn’t let him have it on during the day. “Very good night.” He said, voice warm and sated with sleep. He yawned and rubbed a hand over his eyes before perking up as though remembering something. “Jim?” He looked at the man opposite him; how he’d managed to deal with every twist and turn of Freddie was beyond him. They all knew that Jim did more than his fair share of cleaning up injuries and soothing nightmares. Roger wondered the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. “Can I talk to you about Freddie?”

 

_ Freddie tried to find strength in the music, but it evaded him. The pain was growing worse; he just about managed to stifle his groan when she grabbed his waist to move herself around. If it were any context other than an audition, he would’ve stopped this long ago, but he was too determined and too stubborn for his own good. He stumbled down to place her in his chair and crouched down between her legs; she ran her fingers through his hair and he took the moment to breathe and centre himself, resting his cheek on the warm skin of her inner thigh. _

 

Jim smiled at Roger and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Shoot.” He said, feeling overly cheerful for the early hour; it was always a good morning when Freddie had slept well and woke him up with lazy morning kisses as his alarm went off. Freddie was becoming so comfortable with him, and it warmed him inside: he was rediscovering intimacy a stage at a time, and it was so rewarding to see something previously frightening become so mundane.

 

_ He crawled up her body, tilting her head back with one hand, resting his face against her chest. He loved this character, loved the finesse that made him look so debauched, the skill needed behind the movements to make him look drunk, look crazy, possessive and ugly yet so graceful and beautiful, the biggest juxtaposition of the human character. He arched back and she followed him down to the floor, settling over him, light as a feather; one hand came up around her throat, forcing her to look up at the audience. _

 

“How’s he doing?” Roger took the first taste of the coffee and smiled over at him. Jim had remembered that he liked cream instead of milk. “I mean, I know about the rib, obviously. I know he’s a stubborn fuck and he won’t accept when he’s overdoing it.”

 

_ He rolled them both over, pinning her to the ground, resting his chin on her shoulder, his face buried in the side of her neck. Though they were both sweating, he could smell an undertone of something sweet on her lilac top; he himself was stripped down to his shirt and shorts, too hot for the rehearsal room. He stayed there until the music changed, and drew himself up slowly, her hand soft against his cheek. He staggered across the stage, miming rolling up his sleeve, and then grabbed the needle from the table. He wished it was something real as he plunged down the needle and relaxed back into his seat. _

 

Jim chuckled at Roger’s comments. “We’re making progress.” He said softly, voice quiet as though somebody would be listening in on their conversation with malicious intent. “I got him to go to the doctor, and I had a quick glance at his record. He’s been to them for more than I thought.” He took a long swallow of his tea. “I don’t know whether he told you about the sexual assaults, but he’s been because of them a few times. They’ve kept the evidence in case he wants to prosecute. I don’t know if he’s planning to, but they’ve kept a record of his visits just in case.”

 

_ “Good job, Freddie!” The words brought him back from the haze across his mind, the recurring mantra of painpainpain that threatened to drown out the rest of the world. He felt hands on his leg and bowed forward to grab her again, but he was cut off by the voice. “Let’s pause for a minute. Freddie, can you come with me?” _

 

“Sexual assault?” Roger echoed Jim’s words, voice laced with surprise, with concern, with hurt. His own best friend hadn’t mentioned them. “How bad are we talking?” The idea in itself made him feel sick, but it made sense of why Freddie had rejected all those opportunities to go out with him, why he’d never heard more from the couple despite living in such close proximity to them. 

 

_ Freddie let himself be taken outside into the corridor and then into an empty room opposite. “Can you take your shirt off for me?” Olga’s words were blunt, and he blushed scarlet immediately. “You’re injured, Fred, I’m not stupid. I need to see how bad it is.” He drew the shirt over his torso slowly, suddenly feeling exposed in those little shorts that didn’t seem to cover enough. She rested her hand against the skin of his waist carefully, looking over the bruising; his chest was plastered in black and blue, purple around the edges. She could only imagine his agony as he practiced: even stretching slightly would hurt him. “How long has it been broken? Please tell me you rested it a little.” _

 

“We’re talking rape.” Jim sighed. “He hasn’t spoken to me about it, but that’s what the file says. Non-consensual penetrative sex.” The idea in itself made Jim feel a little ill; he could only imagine what Freddie must remember and relive in every part of his waking life.

 

_ “I broke it Saturday night.” Freddie clutched his shirt to his stomach as she looked over his chest. It was humiliating, but still somehow relieving to have them know, to not merely be hiding his injury the whole time. Maybe it would be better, they could adjust his moves and put him on a physio schedule outside of his rehearsals. “I got drunk and fell.” _

 

“Jesus Christ.” Roger muttered. “Is he going to do Prenter for rape and domestic violence?” All he cared about was vengeance, but his and Freddie’s concepts of justice were entirely different, and this was Freddie’s battle to fight and complete. “Why is he going back there when this keeps happening?”

 

_ Olga didn’t look convinced. “It’s Monday morning, Freddie.” She said quietly. “You can’t dance on this. If it’s a hairline, you don’t want to make it worse. You’ll end up puncturing a lung if you’re not careful, especially doing these moves.” Freddie tugged his shirt back on quickly; now he wasn’t moving, the cold was beginning to bite at him and he was longing for that sweater that Jim had insisted he pack. _

 

“It’s not safe for him to just up and go.” Jim brushed his hair from his face and Roger could see the tiredness around the corners of his eyes. “If he just goes, then he’ll piss him off, and he’ll be ten times worse. He knows where he lives, where he works, he’s got all of his money in his own account. If he just goes then he’s asking to be targeted.” He brought the mug back against his lips. He’d been favouring English breakfast tea since spending more time with Freddie again; it was his go-to. “And he doing Prenter for domestic violence and sexual assault. He can’t do him for rape.”

 

_ Freddie dug around in his bag as soon as they went back to the audition room, finding the big, yellow sweater and tugging it over his body to keep him warm. “I want to continue.” He said to Olga, in complete defiance of what he’d been told. _

 

_ She smiled and shrugged. “That’s up to you, sweetheart.” _

 

“Can’t do him for rape?” Roger focused in on those words again. “What the fuck? Why not? How else can you define non-consensual sex?” He felt anger flare through him, but forced himself to calm down; now wasn’t the time to lose his head, and it wasn’t like it was Jim’s fault.

 

_ He held her until their fall, and he fell a little too heavily on his side; the wind was knocked out of him, and he missed the beat to get back up to his knelt position. He caught Olga’s eye, but she smiled encouragingly. He didn’t let himself break character until the end of their dance. _

 

“Under the law, men can’t be raped.” Jim nodded at Roger’s indignant splutter. “I know. It’s bullshit. Under the law, it is impossible for a man to be raped by another man. So the highest thing he can get Prenter done for is sexual assault.”

 

_ Freddie sat on his knees, hunched over, struggling to catch his breath; he wasn’t even aware that he was groaning ever so slightly with each breath of air. He wasn’t sure, in that moment, where Rudolf ended and he began, trying to separate physical torture from mental torment. _

 

“I’m really glad he’s got you.” Roger said after a pause. “You’ve just- you’ve really settled him. Grounded him. Brought him back to earth a little.” He bit his lip ever so slightly. “He has an awful habit of sleeping around when his relationships get bad, and I’ve always been worried that he’ll end up somewhere that he shouldn’t. I really care about him, you know?”

 

_ “When’s your next performance, Freddie?” Olga knelt beside him, encouraging him to straighten his torso to help him breathe. “Come on, deep breaths, you know those little ones don’t help you.” She tilted his head up carefully, making it easier to get air with as little effort as possible. _

 

“I know.” Jim smiled. It was like the seal of approval, the words he’d wanted to hear from Freddie’s friends; to know that they liked him, they trusted him, they thought that he was good, was so rewarding. He’d liked them for the longest time, and he wanted them to like him back. “I know, Roger, I know what it’s like for you. We’re in the same boat, you know?”

 

_ “A week on Thursday.” Freddie stood up slowly, Olga helping with a hand on his arm. The pain made his head spin, and he reached instinctively for the painkillers in the side of his bag. He tried his best to breathe deeply, but the pain spiked through his chest and he had to shorten his breaths again. _

 

“I know.” Roger replied with a small smile. He was glad that there was somebody like this in the team of people around Freddie; a hairdresser, a rugby player, so strong both physically and mentally. Jim was a lot stronger than he was, and so selfless at that; he never did seem to expect anything in return.

 

_ “I’m authorising you to take the week off.” Olga said quietly. “By that, I mean that you still have to attend warm-ups, with modified movements, and I’ll arrange for you to see the company doctors, but you need a week away from strenuous performance.” Freddie started to protest, but she wouldn’t hear it. “You’re in cast next week, and I need you in top health. I can’t have one of my soloists on stage in agony.” _

 

“Thank you.” Roger spoke up after a moment’s silence. “On his behalf, and on ours. Thank you.”


	36. Wet Evenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's just glad to see Freddie looking so damn happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who aren't gemmed up on your AIDS history (and why would you be, honestly), GRID/gay-related immune deficiency is what AIDS was called before it had been researched properly - the term AIDS didn't come into common usage until the early 1980s and this is set in 1969 (have I ever mentioned that?).

The knock on the door was light, fluid, a series of three graceful knocks that had Jim’s head turning immediately. He only knew one person that managed to command such attention with such a lightness of touch, one person that would tap out a tune when a dull triad would do. He glanced up at the clock, noting the time - approaching five o’clock. It was dark outside, wet, so cold. He’d been spending his time with Roger that afternoon, both of them passing the time by jamming together mindlessly.

 

He had been planning to pick up Freddie from the ballet, not wanting him to have to first contend with the rain, then the cold - he never wore a sensible jacket, he’d come to know - alongside the rush hour on the Piccadilly line. He was finishing at eight that day, but the line was never quiet; as soon as half four struck, it was a continuous rush of angry businessmen trying to sneak their way out of Westminster. Knowing the state he’d been in when he’d gone to ballet that morning, his refusal to take even a single rest day, he could only imagine what he’d be like after a full, intense day.

 

Jim got up from the piano stool to approach the door, swinging it open quickly when his suspicions were confirmed. Freddie stood outside, soaking wet, hair pushed back from his face; the darkness nearly swallowed him whole, but he was backlit by the most gorgeous warm light from across the street. In that moment, Jim felt as though he could see Freddie’s personality, his spirit, his soul, burning in the warmth of that light; it was ethereal, royal, magical and incredible to behold. He was strong, determined, but so open, so loving, so generous and forgiving to others. His radiance was that warmth, gracing every element of his body. He was fluorescent.

 

He looked over his boyfriend, noting the bright beaming smile on his face, the exact opposite of what he’d been expecting to find. Freddie looked happy in a way that he hadn’t in a long time, not since that picnic that they’d had together before Paul had snatched him away again. He looked happy in a way that showed Jim genuine elation, complete content. Despite the rain, despite the cold, he was happy.

 

He surged forward to kiss him, a hand on one cold cheek and the damp skin of his forearm. Freddie dropped his bag on the ground and threw his arms around Jim, holding onto him so tightly; while he hadn’t expected such a welcome home after a mediocre day at work, he would always accept the love that Jim had to give. One hand combed through his wet hair and he shivered, his smile pressing into the kiss and breaking the intensity that clung around the edges.

 

When they pulled away, Jim dragged Freddie inside; his own hair was dampening from the spits of rain that had landed on him. He couldn’t hold back his laughter as one of those cold hands slipped its way under his shirt, warming itself against the small of his back. “Darling, I have such good news.” Freddie murmured into his neck. He didn’t even take a second to consider what Jim was doing in his house now; their two homes were interchangeable, together. Freddie’s was busier, alive with people and noise and chaos, while Jim’s was private, safe, intimate between the two of them.

 

“Hm?” Jim asked softly, pressing a kiss to Freddie’s forehead before he moved away.

 

“I’ll tell you in a moment.” Freddie caught his wrist and pressed a sweet kiss to it. “But I’ve simply got to get out of these clothes, darling, before I freeze to death.” He grinned and disappeared up the stairs to their bedroom.

 

Jim had been expecting him to reappear in a matter of minutes, after changing and possibly drying off his hair, but after half an hour had passed, he ventured upstairs to their room. He pushed open the door gently, taking in how Freddie was sat: he was cross-legged on the bed, shoulders hunched, head ducked right down. Jim acknowledged the long, sad line of his spine; he was surprised by how different he was from only thirty minutes ago. The good news seemed to fade into the background now. As Jim sat down, he caught a glimpse of silver in Freddie’s hand.

 

He was relieved when Freddie looked up quickly. He’d been expecting tears, those shaky breaths that tortured him when he was miserable, possibly an injury that he’d missed at the door. But when Freddie looked up, it was with that beautiful smile, and he felt his worries drain away in an instant. “What are you doing, sweetness?” Jim asked softly, pressing a kiss to Freddie’s temple, hand resting against his waist.

 

Freddie had three pairs of pointe shoes beside him, all brand new, all pristine. Jim watched as Freddie tore the fabric from the shank inside and pulled out the stiff board. “I’m in the mood to prepare these.” He pressed a kiss to Jim’s cheek. “They need the board out, the toe box padded, and the platform darning, otherwise I’ll slip in rehearsals.”

 

Jim hummed and traced little patterns on Freddie’s side, touch feather-light and soothing. “Why don’t they come like that, then?” He asked curiously, resting his head on Freddie’s shoulder and watching as he worked.

 

“Every dancer likes them different. You have to work out what you like so that you can modify them yourself. I have to darn them so I won’t fall over and look like a fool, pad the toe box so I don’t break all my toes when I go up, and take out the board so that they fit the line of my foot better and look better onstage.” Freddie explained, his voice low and melodic as he concentrated. Jim adored times like this together, times when he got the opportunity to listen to Freddie talk about his passions unashamedly; he spoke in a way so unlike the drama of his usual voice, so low and controlled yet so passionate, so obviously knowledgeable.

 

Jim hummed his understanding, picking up one of the unprepared shoes just to hold it in his hand. It was like holding a piece of Freddie, in some ways; it was such an integral part of his life that Jim had so little understanding of. “It’s heavier than it looks.” He murmured absentmindedly, watching as Freddie started the darning on one shoe. “Why do you dance pointe if most men don’t?”

 

He watched the flutter of a proud smile grace Freddie’s lips. “I don’t technically dance it yet, darling. We don’t say that you dance pointe until you’ve performed it.” He explained. “But I practice it because I’m part of a new scheme. They want to break the gender roles around dance.” He turned to kiss Jim’s forehead; Jim grinned at the sudden role reversal. “Pointe is typically seen as a feminine dance because it’s light, it’s noiseless and it’s so graceful. A woman en pointe is supposed to be the pinnacle of femininity, because she’s mastered how to move without placing a heavy weight in her heels. So now, they want to see how the audience responds to a man en pointe. Usually, it’s only used when men are in drag, or if a man plays an animal. Now they’re trying it for a prince.”

 

“You’re playing a prince?” Jim looked up and smiled. He may not understand the intricacies of ballet, but he knew that that must be a member of the main cast; his heart swelled with pride for his lover.

 

Freddie nodded and grinned. “And he’s an effeminate prince at that. A lot of male parts put more of an emphasis on our strength than our grace; I can pick a woman up and hold her there, but I don’t often get to be the beautiful one onstage.” Jim could see how excited Freddie was by this. “But this prince is supposed to be beautiful. He’s royal, he’s majestic, he dances with a lightness that isn’t really seen in conventional male ballet.” He shook his head at himself and laughed. “My apologies, darling, I’m going on a whole spiel that you probably don’t care about in the slightest.”

 

Jim rested his fingers under Freddie’s chin and pulled him into another kiss. “Sweetheart, I always care about what you have to say. I love it when you talk about ballet.” He promised, words muttered against Freddie’s lips. Freddie grinned and kissed back, his now-warm fingers coming up to comb through Jim’s hair. For Freddie _I love it when you talk about ballet_ was close enough to saying _I love you_.

 

Jim wasn’t expecting Freddie to deepen the kiss, but when he moved with him instantaneously; he kissed Freddie’s lower lip, tugging at it lightly with his teeth. Freddie tightened his hand in Jim’s hair in response, opening his lips easily for him, and crawled closer to him. He was almost sat in Jim’s lap as one of those strong hands came to his waist: his noise in response was so soft that he barely picked up on it, but Freddie blushed and pulled away slightly.

 

Freddie was about to apologise - he didn’t want to rile Jim up just to disappoint him - but Jim muttered an “It’s okay, baby, don’t worry” against his lips and kissed him again. Freddie could get lost in the feeling of kissing him, lost in just how easy it was to forget everything and just allow himself to be loved. He wrapped both arms around Jim’s neck and then smiled mischievously; he fell backwards onto the bed, pulling Jim down with him.

 

The laugh against his lips was intoxicating. Jim all-but straddled him, trying his best not to put any weight on Freddie’s chest, and cupped his cheek to kiss him again. Freddie reached up to meet him halfway, showing just how eager he was, but Jim held back momentarily.

 

He took in the red of Freddie’s lips; they were kissed scarlet, the colour looking so good against the warmth of his skin tone. He trailed his gaze down his neck to the love bite on his collarbone, a shoot of pride coming through him when he realised that Freddie had made no attempt to cover it. He took in the sweater he was wearing, the sweatpants that had slid low on his hips during the fall. They were done tightly at the waist, Jim could see the bow that he’d tied to keep them in place, but they were still too big on him. He grinned at the sudden realisation that crossed his mind. “Are those my sweatpants?” He asked, resting a hand on the exposed skin of Freddie’s stomach as he leaned down to kiss him.

 

“Might be.” Freddie smirked and finally succeeded in meeting the kiss. It was slower this time, the two of them exploring what they could touch; Freddie giggled when Jim’s cold fingers skimmed over the sensitive area on his stomach, his own fingers tracing over the dip in his back where the bones of his spine stood out.

 

Eventually, Jim lay down beside Freddie, tilting his head to catch one final kiss against those lips. “You look wonderful in my clothes, sweetheart.” He rested one hand on Freddie’s waist, squeezing it gently. “It makes me realise how insane your body is.”

 

Freddie’s blush was beautiful, and Jim kissed each of his warm cheeks. “What do you mean by that, dear?” His voice was barely a whisper, but Jim could tell that he was holding onto these words for validation. It was all part of his process of rebuilding himself and his identity: now he had the chance to internalise the good as well as the bad.

 

“Your waist.” Jim was almost shy in talking about it; he’d never been one to admire small bodies before, and it was such a change for him. “Your waist is so tiny. You look so gorgeous, sweetheart. I love holding you so much, whether it’s when you’re making breakfast and you’re nervous because the eggs are spitting, or whether it’s half two in the morning and I’ve woken up for no damn reason but it’s okay because I can hold you close and you’ll send me back to sleep.” He kissed the back of Freddie’s hand as he interlaced their fingers.

 

Freddie squeezed his hand and smiled. He glanced up at the ceiling of their bedroom, feeling a wave of happiness wash through him. Jim thought he was beautiful. “Freddie?” He turned to look at Jim, cuddling closer instinctively. Jim welcomed him with a kiss on the forehead. “What do you want out of life?” He was curious to know more than anything; Freddie was such an enigma for him, somebody so different to everyone that he’d known before. Freddie represented the London that he’d always tried to find: cosmopolitan, different, happy, successful, accepting.

 

He heard a soft laugh as Freddie considered his response. “No one’s ever asked me that before.” He said softly. “I’d like to be married, dear. That’s not going to happen, but I like the idea in principle. I like the idea of being someone’s lawfully wedded husband.” He left the _I hope I’m yours_ hanging in the air between them. “Not in a religious ceremony, though. A secular one.”

 

Jim nodded, combing Freddie’s dried hair from his face. He started to run his fingers through it, slowly detangling all of the knots. “I’d like to become a principal dancer, and a young one, so that I can have a career of around twelve years. After that, I’d like to become a choreographer and a teacher.” He curled closer to Jim. “I’d like to adopt children, maybe. Maybe just one. I’d like a little boy.”

 

“I’d like to perform with all the major companies and keep the Royal as my home company.” He’d never talked this much about it before with anyone. “I’d especially like to work in New York for a few months. I hear that their gay community is second only to London.”

 

Jim chuckled. “Would you ever like to go back to India, or to Zanzibar?”

 

Freddie considered it for a few moments. “You know, darling, I would love to see my family again. They weren’t always the best to me, but I’d like for Mama and Pa to see how I’m doing now. I’d like them to be proud of their little boy.” His voice was so soft. “But I wouldn’t want to live somewhere where it would be illegal for me to love, so I wouldn’t want to live there again.”

 

“I’d love a cat.” Freddie grinned and Jim squeezed him absentmindedly. “A little black one. I’d call it Goliath.”

 

“What if it wasn’t big?” Jim ran a thumb over Freddie’s cheekbone.

 

“All the better, my dear.” Freddie was laughing by now; Jim couldn’t help but join in. “But how about you, darling? What do you want out of life?”

 

Jim hadn’t expected the question to be reflected. “I-” He paused for a moment to think. “I’d like to be married too, I think. Gold rings, all the promises, you know?” He traced his thumb absentmindedly over Freddie’s ring finger. It was his way of say _I hope it’s you_. “I’d definitely like kids. I’d probably name them something ridiculous like Oscar or Romeo.”

 

Freddie’s laugh was like velvet against his skin. “I’d like to break into the arts world. Maybe hair and makeup, or stage design, or something like that. I’ve always been jealous that you get to spend nearly every day in the Opera House. Maybe I could do costume, or set.” He shrugged a little. “Maybe something musical, help writing scores or something.”

 

Freddie propped himself on one elbow. “Don’t dismiss your dreams with an “or something”, darling.” His voice was firm, and Jim couldn’t help himself but smile at Freddie’s concerned seriousness. “I’m being honest! If you want something like that, then go for it. They’re always hiring, darling, don’t hide in the shadows.”

 

Jim kissed him again; it was so lovely to have someone else invested in his dreams. He felt so lucky to have the Freddie Mercury by his side. “I’d like to get a nicer apartment in Kensington. One of those big penthouse flats with a stupid number of rooms.” He chuckled softly. His heart wanted to say something romantic, to stop dancing around the point of the conversation in the way that they both were. “I’d like to live with you properly, Freddie.”

 

The scarlet that stained his cheeks was the most adorable thing that Jim had ever seen. “Do you mean that?” He asked quietly, his grip on Jim’s hand increasing. Freddie didn’t ever want to let this man go ever again.

 

“I really do.” Jim whispered, peppering kisses on Freddie’s face. “I really, really do.”

 

Freddie giggled and hid his cheeks behind his hands, trying not to look ridiculous with how happy those words had made him. He tucked his face into Jim’s neck, who squeaked as soon as he did. “Your nose is fucking cold!” He laughed, but he hugged Freddie instinctively, wanting to be as close as possible.

 

After a few minutes of calm between the two of them, Jim carefully tilted Freddie’s head up. “You never told me your good news, darling.” He said softly.

 

His face lit up again; Jim felt so lucky to see it that way. “Well, you know you’ve got this week off work?” Jim nodded quickly. “I’ve been told to rest this week, so I’ve got it off too! I’m going to do the five o’clock warm-up class, the one for performances, in the evening, to keep my fitness up, and I’ll have physio until half seven. The rest of the time I’ll be around to annoy you, darling.”

 

Jim chuckled and kissed his lips gently. “And that’s definitely good news?” He asked softly. He tried to conceal his delight that he was finally slowing down, that he was accepting that he needed to rest and to heal.

 

“It depends on how you look at it.” Freddie shrugged. “Too injured to rehearse is never a good thing, but it means I’ll get to spend more time with you.” He pressed a kiss to Jim’s cheek. “There’s one more thing too.” His voice softened as he lay back down.

 

Jim rested his head against his arm, noting Freddie’s more serious tone. “I went to the doctor’s a few weeks ago, darling, I’ll tell you why at some other time.” He knew not to challenge him; Freddie needed to tell him things at his own pace. “I wasn’t very well, and they thought I might have that awful new disease that’s everywhere at the moment.” Freddie swallowed as though the name gave him pain. “You know, the gay-related immune deficiency. GRID.”

 

Jim just nodded, letting Freddie talk through what he needed to. “It was a chest infection, thankfully, but they thought I had pneumonia. They said I had to be screened for GRID because I’d had sex with another man recently.” He looked down at his fingers. “It was humiliating, honestly. All those people looking down at you and scrutinising you just because of who you choose to love. I never knew it could make you ill.”

 

His demeanour changed suddenly; he broke out of his pitiful state when he glanced up at Jim. “Anyway, darling, today I got the all-clear. My bloods didn’t show anything abnormal that they’d be looking for, and my skin cells were clear. I haven’t gotten anything to worry about.”

 

Jim pulled him in for another kiss, smiling against his lips. “I’m so glad you went and got checked out.” He said softly. “We’re going to look after you, Freddie Mercury. We’re going to take such good care of you.”

 

Freddie smiled against his lips and climbed on top of Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was genuinely sat in a meeting today with fluorescent open in one of my tabs hoping to god that no one was going to look over my shoulder - this chapter is 3.4k words which is the longest single thing I've ever written, which is crazy.
> 
> Thank you so much for the 7000 hits (that's just insane!) and for all of your continued support - especial shoutout to those of you who comment consistently on every single chapter, and those who leave me long comments with all your theories or analysis or your favourite part of the chapter! I love you so so much if you've ever commented a single word on this fic, and I love reading them so so much!


	37. Hopes and Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shower isn't always the best place to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is much shorter than I'd intended (the next chapter will follow on directly from this) but I thought it would be interesting to isolate a chapter purely inside Freddie's mind. Huge discussions of rape/consent/self-respect as a rape victim here. No clues on italics this time!

_Why did you do it?_

 

_I couldn't stand seeing them together like that._

 

_Was it jealousy?_

 

_Not jealousy. Vengeance._

 

* * *

 

 

He wished that he was better at crying quietly. In all the films, all the books, people cried so gracefully with silky tears that ran gently down their cheeks like little fragments of crystalline glass. Freddie cried so loudly, awful heaving sobs that choked up his throat, the sound coming from the simple forcing of breath from his chest. He sat on the floor of the shower, the water too hot against his skin; he cried himself hoarse, hating everything and everyone in that moment.

 

He’d known from the second that he’d agreed to share the joint that it would be a bad idea. Every time that he’d smoked cannabis he was grasped by an awful panic, one that blew everything completely out of proportion, that made the littlest tribulations into the worst things that had ever happened. They’d shotgunned it, the velvety smoke being passed between his lips so easily, forced down through a completely passive body. When he was with Paul, his body didn’t belong to him anyway.

 

The high was always incredible, making him feel so relaxed and so alive and so attentive to every little thing. The high was an experience like no other, genuine joy to be alive prickling beneath his skin; it was easier to bear the times with Paul when he was high, to ignore the wrong pair of lips pressed against his. It was easier to let himself go completely boneless, to let his body be used in whatever way, when he was thrumming with electricity.

 

Maybe it was a fucked up form of consent. A defeat, almost. He accepted that he was powerless. He accepted that his body belonged to someone else, detached himself to somewhere else as he was used as the means to someone else’s pleasure. The struggle at the beginning was always halted, and so he’d given up trying. It was better to save the black eye and to pretend he was somewhere else. Maybe that was just sex. He closed his eyes, he tried to imagine someone else, to imagine Jim, but his body couldn’t find the interest. He wouldn’t ever want to fuck properly if this was the reality of it.

 

Paul seemed to enjoy it, at least.

 

The high was never worth the comedown. Now, sitting in the shower back in Brian’s house, he felt disgusting and dirty and used and worthless, as though he would never get clean no matter how much he washed. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, why he couldn’t just enjoy it like everyone else. Sex had never changed, no matter the partner. He was always a means to another person’s pleasure, and he never got anything out of it. He chased it for some kind of sick validation, the knowledge that he could make other people lose their minds, the knowledge that they wanted him, even if it was only for the ten minutes before they threw him aside.

 

Maybe that was why he was so reluctant to have sex with Jim. He didn’t want him to be just like the rest, as soon as Freddie gave in; he didn’t want him to chase his own pleasure, to use the rigid body beneath him like a doll, and then to roll out of the bed and leave his life forever. As much as he liked Jim, he didn’t trust him to stay when he’d gotten his way. After all, all people ever seemed to want from Freddie was sex.

 

He covered his eyes as the panic rose in his body, seizing his throat and gripping it like a vice. He could only half remember what had set this off, the little note in his pigeon hole that had put him in such a foul mood that he’d gone back to Paul just to be coddled for a little while Jim was away for the day.

 

_We’re sorry to inform you that this time, your audition to play Rudolf in Mayerling was unsuccessful._

 

Except Paul didn’t do validation in the same way that Jim did, and it left him feeling hollow and empty. Jim would pull him close, remind him of all the wonderful things that he was doing, kiss his cheeks and his nose and his eyelids until Freddie was smiling again. Jim would wrap him up in blankets and make him tea and lay with him in bed until Freddie was calm and worn out enough from crying that he’d fall into a dreamless sleep, curled up to his side.

 

All he’d had from Paul was a _well, I never expected you to get it_ and a choice of poisons. He wanted validating, to know that it was okay, to know that people didn’t hate him and it was just one bad audition while he was injured and fuck, it was probably because of the injury that he didn’t get it. Paul didn’t do validation like that. Paul’s validation was sex, to make Freddie feel worthwhile by showing him how good he was for sex.

 

But it wasn’t a fucking talent, it wasn’t something that he tried so hard for, something that meant so much to him. He didn’t care if he was the least satisfying partner ever. He already was for Jim, and that wracked him with guilt.

 

_I promise, darling, that if you want to have sex with someone else, then I won’t mind. I won’t mind if you bring someone else home. I’ll sleep on the sofa, darling, I’ll go to Brian’s, I don’t mind at all. I know I can’t give you everything you want, and you’ve done so well to put up with me so far - darling, promise me that if you find someone else, someone beautiful, that you’ll take them. Don’t wait for me, darling, go out and live your life and don’t even think for two seconds that you have to stay behind with me._

 

He was spiralling again, one thought merging into another one, the self-doubt tumbling into words from his mouth before he could even think about it. He wondered how many times he’d said this same thing to Jim.

 

_I’m not going to do that to you, sweetheart. I don’t mind waiting for you, Freddie, I promise._

 

Somehow, the words didn’t settle the panicked nausea in his stomach. He wasn’t good enough, he wasn’t good enough for any of it - he wasn’t good enough to become a principal, he was always injured, they’d throw him out soon for missing too many rehearsals; he wasn’t good enough for Jim, who’d leave at some point, who’d get bored of soothing nightmares and never being able to act like a normal couple.

 

His head spiralled so badly that he was frightening himself, not noticing the water growing cold. He’d lose his scholarship. His friends wouldn’t want him anymore. He wouldn’t have anywhere to live. Without the ballet, he’d lose his visa, and they’d send him back to Zanzibar. He’d have to get a different job, an office job.

 

His stomach twisted painfully, and he groaned.

 

He wouldn’t be able to love anybody. He’d have to live on his own. They’d stone him to death just because of what he’d been through.

 

He grabbed onto his hair until the strands started to tear out.

 

_I’m going to die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick poll - I've had some suggestions in the comments regarding Freddie's future plans, and I wondered if anybody would be interested in a sequel to Fluorescent once this is finished? Following more of his life as a professional, once he's truly grounded in his profession and has settled down properly. Fluorescent is due to have it's final chapter set in January, and considering it's early December in this chapter, Fluorescent obviously isn't going to cover much of his professional development. I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	38. Vignette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's waves of static crashing over his eyes, vision fading to vignette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was intended to be a happy chapter but it's just not and that's okay! The next three are pretty happy. This chapter is very deliberately ambiguous, kids.

_I think, for tonight, you just need to do something to distract yourself. I’ll be back home tomorrow, and we can talk it through then. What do you like to do when you’re not dancing?_

 

_I write songs, sometimes. I like to play the piano._

 

_I’m sure Brian will want to play with you._

 

_I don’t want to disturb him._

 

_That’s okay too, sweetheart. Why don’t you go and play for a while? See if it helps soothe your head?_

 

_It’s getting late. I’ll keep everyone awake._

 

_Then go up to our room, and grab one of my sweaters, and see if you can write any good strings of lyrics that you can play with tomorrow. Your mind is so incredible, honey, I’m so impressed by everything that you can do and create. You don’t ever have to show anybody it if you don’t want to._

 

_What shall I write about?_

 

_Anything, Freddie. Write about the past, or the future, or me, or your friends, or some theoretical made up land or mythology. Try writing about yourself. Fuck what they think, write about what you see. What you want to be._

 

* * *

 

The notebook was old, a mess of tattered papers that had all frayed around the edges. It felt good to reopen it, a treasure chest so long neglected, to remember those melodies that he’d come up with so long ago. He looked down at the words on the page, and the faintest hint of a smile danced across his face. He wondered what Jim would think if he sang these onstage.

 

_She’s all out to get you._

 

He’d written this when he’d first come to England, when he’d imagined what he could be like, what he’d be like at his peak. This was the man he wanted to be, dangerous in his sex appeal, dark-lipped and dark-eyed and oh-so-desirable.

 

It was good to get lost in the fantasy again, the one where he was strong and independent and would grab a man by the balls if it meant getting one foot up in the world. It was good to get lost in the world where his sexuality, his gender expression, didn’t fucking matter in the slightest - it felt good to let himself be unashamedly him.

 

He thought about how to perform it, the natural rhythm that the words seemed to have, the beat that he wanted to dance to. He looked at the piano notes that he had scrawled, wondered what they’d sound like accompanied with a heavy drum beat in the background, sensual and sexual guitar over the top, designed to tease.

 

_Then again, incidentally, if you’re that way inclined-_

 

It was the kind of song that he wanted to sway his hips to, the kind of song that would rile up anyone in the room, where he could be overtly wanted and be proud of it. Maybe it was another fucked up form of validation, to be wanted by everybody in the room, to be the sort of cocktease that would brush off the simplest of compliments.

 

He stood up by the window and hummed under his breath, hyper-conscious of Brian only two rooms over. His chest protested, fatigue and exercise and rough sex having sent him into a downward spiral of pain once again; he absentmindedly swallowed two more pills. Had it been an hour since the last lot? Half an hour? Ten minutes? It should’ve been four hours, but he was hardly keeping tabs - it was about survival, not adhering to every rule.

 

Brian watched him from the door, smiling when he noted the papers spread out over his bed. “Working on anything in particular?” He asked, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. He was thankful that Jim had talked him down from that awful panic attack.

 

Freddie was so tired. He felt a little dizzy as he turned towards Brian, and his instinctive reaction was to swallow another tablet - he stopped himself as soon as his hand touched the box. Not now, not quite yet.

 

Instead, he picked up one of the sheets nervously, tapping his fingers against it. “A song, actually.” He said quietly. “Wrote it a little while ago, before I started fucking you guys around.”

 

Brian could feel the self-hatred in his voice. There was only so much that a phone call could do, after all. “John and Roger got home not long ago.” His voice was offering something; Freddie glanced up instinctively. “We can try something out, if you’ve got any ideas. The others have been wanting to jam for a while, actually. We’ve all got stuff that we’d like to hear you sing.”

 

He instinctively wanted to withdraw himself, scared of his songs being smacked down, but he forced himself to cooperate. Really, all he wanted to do was take a few tablets and fall asleep for a while, to try and soothe his awful headache that never seemed to disappear. Instead, he gave Brian a tired smile.

 

“I’d like that.” He forced the words out from between his lips. Maybe it would help him, help to drown out the pain and the angry thoughts in his head and the rapidly worsening dizziness that threatened to white out the rest of the world. “Tell the others I’ll be down in a minute.”

 

Roger noticed first. Maybe it was the nature of studying biology, of constantly comparing healthy and ill bodies, but he noticed first that he wasn’t looking well. His skin was cold, both in temperature and in tone; his lips had lost their warm pink, taking on a slightly blue tone as he sang. He figured that the pain must be playing up on him that evening, that he was exhausted and now they were adding strain to the long day, not allowing him to rest even when he was clearly unwell. But Freddie didn’t even wince when he drew in those deep breaths needed for some parts of the songs, although Roger swore that he could practically feel the strain on the break from his spot across the room.

 

Freddie was acting up for them, trying to prove that everything was fine, but the sway in his step wasn’t just the way that he would mess about onstage. There were moments where he looked as though the world had faded out from behind his eyes, when he grabbed for air between words where there weren’t pauses, just trying to keep himself upright and functioning.

 

But fuck, it felt so good to hear him sing again. It felt so good to know that he was still interested in their little side-project, that he was still writing and composing and that he hadn’t allowed himself to be completely wrapped up in his dreams with the Royal to forget his part.

 

_Fastidious and precise._

 

Freddie’s conducting was out of time, missing the beats slightly as he tried to bring them in at the right time. It was as though he wasn’t listening to what was going on, as though he felt the music without ever registering what was going through his brain.

 

It was waves of static crashing over his ears, vision fading to vignette, blurring out as he leaned back against the piano.

 

Roger wouldn’t just watch.

 

“Let’s call it a night, Bri.”


	39. Fires of a Revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was on the first rung, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluorescent is the biggest Hutton/Mercury fic by hits! How completely insane! I love you guys so much!
> 
> Chapter inspired by https://open.spotify.com/track/6rVJfgSjj2jEKkXL5QuXPd?si=fCk0aCdRSvGKgGURf9plKw (the song I had Jim playing in my head).

He lay on the floor, the cold wood pressing into his cheek as he turned his head to one side. His eyes were closed, lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. His hair was spread in a halo around his head, the crown of his head pressing back into the floor beneath him. The sunshine wrapped him up in its early morning glow, painting warm lines on his face, over those long limbs that lay crumpled on the floor.

 

“I told you you’d tire yourself if you tried to warm up at that pace.” Jim’s voice was light, playful, as he glanced over at Freddie. “That song is way too fast as the first song of the day.”

 

Freddie laughed and threw an arm over his eyes. His left foot was cramping. “I got a bit ahead of myself.” He conceded; Jim was pleased how level he seemed again after the report he’d had from Brian about the evening before. “I just want to be warm before the warm-up class, I guess. I want to get the bastards back.”

 

Jim hummed quizzically, playing a few notes from a sheet that Freddie had left on top of the piano. “What do you mean by that, princess?” He was vaguely aware that between them, they were ridiculously too loud for six o’clock in the morning, but Freddie had wanted practice before Jim’s training.

 

“Did I not tell you why they rejected me?” Freddie’s cheek pinkened at the nickname; no one had ever referred to him in such effeminate terms before. His experience of gay men were ones so solid in their identities that they wouldn’t try a single thing that might compromise their expression.

 

“I don’t remember it.” Jim uncrossed his ankles and started to play again, watching the tension melt away from Freddie’s body.

 

“I’m not masculine enough to play Rudolf.” He glanced up at Jim. He felt supported by the look of sheer confusion on his face. “Bullshit, right? They spend half a year training me to dance pointe when I don’t need to, encouraging me to work on that over my pas de deux even though I need that to be a success in male ballet, and then they tell me that I’m not fucking masculine enough.”

 

The lightness of the notes in his mind made him relax his shoulders subconsciously. “They wouldn’t even say it to my face. They sent me a shitty piece of paper to tell me that I wasn’t what they were looking for.” He sat up lightly, watching as Jim played. “They gave one of the roles to a First Artist, and yet they brought me in at Soloist level. I wouldn’t be so bitter, but I’m a better dancer. It’s not an amateur production.”

 

It was so rare, to hear Freddie talk about his talent out loud. It had been trained out of him, years of being forced to feel embarrassed about his career, to be made to feel small, never enough. To hear it now was to hear Freddie reclaiming himself.

 

“Are you going to complain?” Jim asked softly.

 

“I don’t think I can.” Freddie sighed. “I’ve only been there a month. I did my first audition when I was still in the school. They’ll just say I’m too new to understand.”

 

Jim raised an eyebrow, challenging him to think more. “Then what are you going to do?”

 

He stood up slowly and leaned on the piano, stretching and flexing his cramping foot, “I’m going to go in there, and be the best damn ballet dancer they’ve ever had. Fuck their stereotypes.”

 

There was something new there, something Jim hadn’t seen before. There was a little boy in there that wouldn’t take no for an answer. There was spirit, there was spite, there was a desire to get himself up in the world. He hadn’t been beaten into submission. There was a little boy, used and sleep deprived, drugged up and yet still in pain, batted from pillar to post without anyone to ground him, to love him, to look after him, and he wanted vengeance.

 

Jim grinned and stood up, walking over quickly and pressing his lips firmly to Freddie’s. He wanted to taste the bitterness on his lips, the flavour of such subtly malicious prose. Freddie grabbed his hair, and he gripped his hips tightly, draining his frustration in the easiest way he knew how. “You’re going to do it.” Jim murmured against his lips. “You’re going to show them where they went wrong, and you’re going to become the best fucking principal that anyone has ever seen.”

 

It was the validation that he craved. He kissed those words off Jim’s lips, took them as his own. He couldn’t just keep being beaten down like this. “They’re not recasting the prince. They tried to, and I kicked off.” He muttered. “Said I was too injured. I told them to go fuck themselves.” He was grinning; maybe he shouldn’t be, but it felt so good to seize his own life back. “I’m not very popular.”

 

Jim laughed and kissed him again, pinning him against the piano mindlessly. “I love you.” He whispered against Freddie’s lips; the notes of the piano swirled in his mind, and all he could taste was sugar-sweet-saccharine-chalk-chamomile, all he could feel were soft breaths against his lips. He wanted to be there forever. “I know it’s too early, I know you won’t want to say-” Freddie kissed him again, breaking both opportunities to speak. “But I fucking love you, Freddie Mercury, and you need to know it.”

 

He was half expecting to be pushed away, too familiar with the dangers of falling in love too quickly. He wasn’t expecting Freddie to tug on his hair as he kissed him again. It was like a different person, and Jim was falling in love faster than he could ever imagine. He’d fallen slowly for the shy little Persian boy, the damaged package that needed gluing back together, the one that wouldn’t dare do anything that could compromise their relationship. Now, feeling those sure hands in his hair, hearing that strength of voice, he realised that he was talking to a work in progress. He wasn’t shattered, broken into a thousand pieces, some bits smashed smaller than could be recovered, irreplaceable. He was cracked, and tarnished, but he was whole.

 

“I love you.” Freddie’s voice didn’t tremble in the way that Jim had always imagined. It was the firmest thing he’d ever said, so completely sure of what he was saying. “I love you so fucking much, you have no idea-”

 

They’d moved from purgatory into heaven. They’d moved from avoiding the tension between them, the wondering of what does the other want, does he really want me, what is he here for. They’d stopped pretending that they were sure of one another, pretending that they knew what would happen next. They’d moved from that unbearable avoiding the real meaning of conversations, half-hearted love confessions through the guise of compliments and reassurance.

 

Jim pulled back and grinned, looking at the flush over Freddie’s face. He looked dazed, but his eyes were alive, bright, attentive. He cupped Freddie’s cheek in one hand, smiling at the kiss that was pressed to his palm. “So what are you going to do, princess?” He jumped back in their conversation. Freddie melted just at the sight of his expression.

 

_I promise, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Never again._

 

“I’m going to do a warm-up en pointe.” He said decisively. Jim had taught him to think for himself, to follow his actions through, and he’d do it. “And I’m going to wear that huge sweater of yours and the shorts and leg-warmers, and they’ll hate it. They’ll tell me that I don’t do that because I’m a guy. I’ll tell them to fuck off, darling.”

 

“Anything else?” Jim was lost in the calm expression of Freddie’s face.

 

_I’ve found my place in the world. I’m not going to be as scared anymore. I’m not going to drown my sorrows, or run back to safety when things get hard, or put myself in danger for shitty validation for my own actions. I’m in charge._

 

“I’m leaving Paul.”

 

Jim grinned.

 

“Saturday night, I’m going to pack up the last of my stuff and leave. I’m going to file the case against him. I’ll go to court against him. I’ll be cross-examined by him. I’ll expose him. I don’t give a fuck, anymore.” Freddie was grinning so proudly.

 

Maybe it was another fantasy, but it felt like the truth this time. He wasn't second-guessing himself. He would crawl his way up from rock bottom one fucking rung at a time, but he wasn’t lying on the floor at the bottom of the pit anymore.

 

A warm hand held one of his.

 

He was on the first rung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic writers will understand that sometimes a chapter just writes itself, and this one wrote itself today. I hope you're prepared for a vengeance arc that no one was expecting (also interesting theories on why he'd out of himself in the last chapter, but no one's quite gotten it - this sudden change will make more sense when it comes to light!)


	40. Rock Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He clung to the first rung of the ladder like a vice.

“My fucking feet.” Freddie murmured, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Jim had just gotten out the shower, busy rubbing a towel through his hair, another tied around his waist. Freddie glanced up at him, smiled a little, and grabbed the warming gel from the drawer of the bedside table; he carefully massaged it into the arch of his left foot.

 

“You okay, princess?” Jim asked, looking over Freddie quickly before rifling through his drawer for a clean shirt. Freddie had stolen so many of his clothes while he’d been away from training; he reminded himself to do an extra load of laundry so that he’d have things to wear in the morning. “What happened to your foot?” He pulled boxers and a t-shirt on quickly, watching as Freddie cleaned blood from his foot.

 

Freddie hummed in discomfort as the antibacterial wipe made the wound sting. “I had a blister, but I ran out of second skin halfway through the class.” He began to explain. “It burst, and then the skin just kept being rubbed away because I didn’t have the time to pad them properly between dances.”

 

Jim pressed a swift kiss to Freddie’s head as he leaned down to retrieve his sweatpants from the foot of the bed. “Can I get you any painkillers?” He asked softly, hopping on one foot to try and keep his balance as he put them on; Freddie couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “Not all of us have perfect balance, sweetheart.” He used the name sarcastically, and Freddie laughed. 

 

“No, thank you.” Freddie smiled sweetly. Jim kissed one of his cheeks as he sat down next to him. “I’m coming off the painkillers. I think taking this much codeine is probably bad for me.”

 

“Is that a good idea considering your rib?” Jim questioned, reaching for Freddie’s other foot.

 

Freddie always sat with one leg bent, the one he was working on, giving him easy enough access to clean it. The other leg was out straight to the side of him, stretching his hamstring, his inner thigh, and his calf. Jim picked it up and massaged it lightly, applying a light pressure to the underside of each of his toes; Freddie loved being made a fuss of in this way.

 

Freddie looked to the side, to his lover sat beside him, and smiled despite himself. It seemed so strange, how easy it was to be in love with Jim: every boyfriend he’d ever had had been tainted with danger in one way or another. 

 

Every boyfriend. Freddie smiled wryly to himself; Jim was only his third.

 

“Could you possibly make us some tea, darling? I think I need a quiet night in.” Freddie said softly. Jim smiled and carefully stood up, mindful of Freddie’s leg.

 

As Jim stood by the kettle, waiting for it to boil, he thought about how quiet Freddie was that evening. Something was off, he was sure; he couldn’t help but worry that he was regretting their conversation that morning.

 

He took their two mugs upstairs, setting them down on the bedside table and sitting just behind Freddie. He lay back against the headboard and wrapped his arms around Freddie, pulling him back to rest against his chest. Freddie sighed a little, closing his eyes momentarily, and tucked his head under Jim’s chin.

 

Jim held him closer, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “What’s going on in your pretty little head, sweetheart?” He asked softly.

 

“I’m being silly.” Freddie murmured. Jim frowned and took one of Freddie’s hands, skimming his thumb over the knuckles. 

 

“You’re not being silly if something’s bothering you.” He murmured, squeezing him lightly. Freddie let his head rest against Jim’s bicep, feeling his pulse beneath his skin as it thrummed against his ear. “Talk to me?” He asked softly. 

 

The sigh was long, deep, slow, tired. “I keep thinking about love.” He admitted to Jim. “It’s like, now that I’m happy, my brain wants to keep reminding me of everything that’s happened, all the reasons why I can’t possibly be in love.”

 

“Thinking about Paul?” Jim asked quietly, tracing little patterns on his stomach. 

 

“Not Paul.” He said quickly. “No, I’m thinking about before. In Zanzibar.” 

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jim’s voice was so gentle. “It might help you if you get it off your chest.”

 

Freddie was silent for a long while; Jim assumed that he didn’t want to talk about it. He tried to encourage him to talk about what was troubling him, to not bottle things up: it was the most effective way that he’d found to prevent panic attacks and tears. Freddie was a naturally communicative person, he usually liked to talk, but Jim could never force him to. 

 

“We moved from Zanzibar to India when I was thirteen.” He broke the silence after a few minutes. “But we moved back when I was seventeen. I was still going to school in India, so I spent my holidays in Zanzibar and my term times in India.” He curled closer to Jim. “I hated Zanzibar so much. I was so frightened every single fucking time I had to go back.”

 

Jim’s fingers moved to his waist, pulling him closer. “I- I fell in love with the boy across the road.” Freddie’s laugh was rough, pained. “We never got further than a few kisses in secret spots, but somehow people found out.” He realised he hadn’t explained the reason for the secrecy. “It’s illegal to be gay in Zanzibar. Thirty years in prison, or death by honour killing.”

 

His stomach twisted painfully. “They gave the police both of our names. They went to him first, in the middle of the night. I heard it all. I watched it through the shutters in my bedroom, through the tiniest crack so that they wouldn’t realise I was watching. They stripped him down, they forced him through all these humiliating examinations. He’d never even had sex.”

 

He wiped his eyes roughly; it made him upset, but it also frightened him to remember what had happened. “He just disappeared overnight. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. But I lay there for two weeks, waiting every single night for the pounding on the door that would be the end of me. Every single time someone bumped around the house, or Kash had a nightmare, or Pa left for work early in the morning, I thought I was going to die. And I remember thinking, fuck, this is love.”

 

Jim pulled him closer and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Sweetheart.” He sighed softly. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”

 

Freddie clutched onto him. “So my first boyfriend was tortured and possibly murdered, and my second was abusive. He-” His mouth was running, everything coming out. He needed Jim to know everything all of a sudden; he was sick of secrets, of holding it in. If the man loved him, then he needed to love everything. He needed to know. “Paul, he- he abused me. Mentally, psychologically, physically, sexually, everything. He got me hooked on codeine.” He glanced at the box on the nightstand; he was filled with shame.

 

“When you’re in pain, you’ll do anything to make it stop. I was in pain all the time, and he knew that, so he fed me those tablets to help me function through the day. Then I started having to take them to be able to sleep, and they made me practically numb when he started me on ketamine.” He was trying and failing to hold back the tears; it was overwhelming to say it out loud, to finally admit to it all. “Ketamine makes codeine last longer, it depresses your nervous system so that you can’t move, you can barely think, you can’t feel anything.”

 

His breaths were shaky. “He would put me to sleep like that, and he’d have sex with me when I was out cold. And I’d wake up and I’d feel sore and dirty and ashamed, so I’d take more pills just to drown out the feeling. I couldn’t function unless I was numb. I couldn’t function if my brain worked, or any of my nerves worked. It was so bad, Jim, but I kept going back to him even after I’d escaped because I had to have those tablets, and I had to have more and more and higher strengths just so that they’d have the same effect.”

 

“Hey, hey, sweetheart.” Jim held one of Freddie’s hands tightly, the other hand cupping his cheek softly. “Come on, Freddie, sweetheart, breathe.”

 

Freddie was barely listening to him. “I went to the doctor about these persistent low moods, and he prescribed me another drug. He never told me that it wasn’t good with codeine. So I took that, and I took too much because I was so fucking sad, and I took too much codeine because I was so dependent on it to live, and then he drugged me up with ketamine that I was too sedated to reject. It paralysed me for an evening. I thought I was going to die. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t think. And he-” He was crying now, properly, his chest heaving with panicked sobs. He couldn’t get over his embarrassment, how awful it felt to know that he would never be clean of any of it, that he couldn’t go back in time and stop himself from falling in love with the wrong person. “He abused me, over and over again, and so did his friend, but I was barely even aware. I needed the hospital, I wasn’t breathing enough, and they just had their fill and left me on the floor of the lounge.”

 

Jim hugged him tightly this time. He’d known it was bad, but he never thought it would’ve been this awful. Freddie sobbed into his shoulder, clutching tight to his t-shirt: it was the first time that he hadn’t been pushed away. The pain was bad that evening, an awful sharp pain that dug through his side every time that he took a breath in; he wanted to numb it, but it felt like a defeat, like he was letting Paul win. Everything was mixed up in his head, old experiences and new worries folding together. “I had to stop taking them.”

 

Jim wanted to cry himself, just listening to Freddie, but he held it together as he clung onto the boy. In some ways, he was calmer now than he ever had been before. Freddie wasn’t keeping secrets now; he was confident that everything was coming out here and now. 

 

He held him until the sobs began to quieten, until he was calmer. Carefully, ever so carefully, he tilted Freddie’s head up and wiped the tears from his eyes. 

 

“I’m scared of being in love.” Freddie whispered. He sounded so vulnerable. Jim wanted to hold him there in his arms forever, just to know that he was okay. “I’m scared of people hurting me. I’m scared that you won’t be who I think you are. I’m scared that I got so lost in this fantasy of England that I never thought it through.”

 

“You haven’t experienced love yet, sweetheart.” Jim was so gentle. The words soothed Freddie like a balm; it made him sound pure, inexperienced, uncontaminated, clean. All he wanted to be was clean. “Paul didn’t love you. He used you, he abused you for his own entertainment and benefit. That’s not love, baby. You didn’t have time to fall in love with the boy across the road. That’s infatuation, love at first sight.”

 

Freddie lay down beside him; he was tired out from crying. Jim lay beside him, pulled him in, safe and warm and close-by. “I promise, my love, that when I tell you I love you, I’m telling you the truth. I’m not using it to try and manipulate you into thinking that what I’m doing is okay. I’m never going to hurt you, Freddie. I don’t promise that we won’t have arguments. We’ll never see eye-to-eye on everything, and that’s okay. But I’ll never try to hurt you, sweetheart. I’m never going to hit you, I’m never going to manipulate you into thinking that you’re sick, I’m never going to do anything with you without your complete consent.”

 

Freddie chewed one of his fingernails, trying to keep himself calm. He couldn’t believe he’d said all of it out loud, and even more that Jim had wanted to stay afterwards. “I’m sorry.” He whispered after a pause, looking at the shadows on Jim’s face, almost nose-to-nose with him. “You don’t have to want me anymore.”

 

Jim pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Never be sorry for things that aren’t your fault.” He murmured. “I’m so proud of you for telling me, baby, thank you so much. You should be so proud of yourself.” He pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you so much.”

 

He could see the exhaustion around Freddie’s eyes; he wondered how long he’d been struggling to sleep without those tablets. A night, or a week? When was the last time he’d slept through the night? His eyelids closed heavily when he spoke, as though they were the only words he’d been searching for for years. “I love you.” He echoed.


	41. Whipped Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thunder rumbles quietly in the distance.

Jim propped himself up on his elbows as he searched the dark room for any sign of Freddie. It was early morning, the sun just beginning to stretch beyond the horizon; the heavy curtains pushed the light away, reducing the room to shadows.

 

He loved the morning so much. Mornings with Freddie had always been his favourite: he often woke up with an arm around Freddie’s waist, nose buried into the younger boy’s hair, either tucked up against his back or having those soft breaths roll across his chest. He’d never known somebody affectionate in the way that Freddie was, somebody who clutched close throughout the whole night, somebody who never rolled away or wanted their own space.

 

Jim loved to feel wanted. Freddie gave him that feeling, one that he’d never had before. He loved being wanted, being needed in some way; he loved how much Freddie seemed to love him. Freddie trusted him so much with every single little thought that flitted through his mind, bad dreams or snippets of piano. He trusted Jim to look after him, to care for him.

 

He sat up in bed, the sheets bunching around his waist. Freddie was an early riser, but he was terrible at getting out of bed quietly. Jim always noticed when he left; it had started out as nerves, concern over why he’d left, but now he naturally tuned himself to Freddie’s rhythm. He felt healthier, happier than he had in a long time, waking with his lover at the sunrise and learning to wind down properly in the evenings.

 

People perceived it to be a one-way relationship, Jim giving and Freddie taking everything he could possibly manage. People saw it as selfish, as though Freddie never gave back, as though there was nothing in it for Jim.

 

It couldn’t be further from the truth.

 

Waking up every day to somebody beside you, somebody who wanted you more than anyone else in the whole world, would never be a tiring experience. Freddie encouraged him in a way that no one else ever had, to find his passion, to nurture his talents, to follow his dreams. The man was a walking pharmacy, always knowing just the trick to stop his calves from swelling after a vicious rugby tackle, accompanying it with a sweet kiss and one of those smiles that made Jim’s heart melt.

 

He stood up slowly, grabbing a jumper and pulling it on quickly. He walked over to the balcony doors; one was propped open ever so slightly, the curtain fluttering in the gentle wind. He pulled it aside and took in the sight of his lover at once; he lay there, goosebumps raised in the freezing temperature of the early morning, fully stretched into his splits and laying over one leg. One hand held his foot in a sure grip, the other taping his fourth and little toes together.

 

Jim leaned against the balcony door and smiled. One day he’d marry this man.

 

“You’re up early, sweetheart.” He commented, voice still rough and contaminated by sleep. Freddie thought it sounded beautiful. He stretched round to look at Jim, blowing him a quick kiss.

 

“Good morning to you, too, sleepy-head.” Freddie teased kindly, kissing Jim properly as he sat down opposite Freddie.

 

Jim cupped his cheek, held him there for a few moments as they kissed lazily. It was so oddly domestic, how quickly they’d settled together; neither minded the taste of morning breath, or sharing socks, or kissing the other when he was sweaty and, by all accounts, slightly disgusting. When they pulled away, Jim kept his hand there just a little longer to feel the softness of Freddie’s skin. “What are you preparing for?” He asked softly.

 

He knew Freddie’s preparation routine well: it was a staple before every performance, every audition. It started out like this, by getting looser and warmer and bringing energy back into those muscles. He was kindest to his body on days like that day; he never woke up without aches and pains, sometimes questioning whether it was worth the pain in his legs and feet to get ready for the day. On important days, though, he would wake early to bathe, to calm his muscles with epsom salts and a warming balm directly to the skin. He would take his time to stretch out, to roll out the tiredness and stiffness in his lower back, his thighs, his ankles. He’d tape his toes, pad them properly, apply numbing gel to the very ends to stop them from distracting him. His pain threshold was insanely high, the nature of the devil, but he still had to take care of himself.

 

Freddie threaded his fingers between his toes and curled them, wrinkling his nose at the discomfort of the stretch. “It’s my exam today.” He told Jim, grabbing two little pads with his other hand to tape to the outside of his foot, between the ball and the toe. “Male pas de deux, female pas de deux, and contemporary. I don’t really know why I chose to do that.” He laughed a little at his last statement.

 

Jim tore off three inches of tape for him; by now, he knew the little intricacies of his routine. “I have to do female pas de deux to prove that I’m capable of doing partner work en pointe.” Freddie explained. Jim could tell he’d been awake for hours: his mind was alive and racing. “And I have to do male pas de deux because they’ve suddenly decided that they won’t accept the qualification I did in India. It’s like they’re trying to undermine me as soon as they’ve put me in the company.”

 

“I’m sure it’s nothing like that, sweetheart.” Jim said soothingly. “They’re probably just being cautious, you know? Making sure that everybody’s up to scratch.”

 

“Who knows?” Freddie asked wryly, shooting him a smile. “Could you possibly do me a favour, darling?” He asked softly, moving to sit cross-legged.

 

“Of course.” Jim smiled. Freddie retrieved a pair of pointe shoes that he’d placed to the side of his mat, alongside his ballet bag.

 

“Could you possibly do my hair?” Freddie’s blush was so shy, and so sweet. “I’m not allowed to have it in my face for exams, but it’s not really long enough to do anything neat with it.” His fingers moved over a little strip of satin and he held it in his fingers nervously.

 

Jim grinned and moved to kneel behind Freddie, taking note of the fabric in his hands. “Do you want me to tie it with that, sweetheart?” He asked softly. Freddie nodded, passing it over and then grabbing hair grips from his bag.

 

“It’s a silly little superstition thing, darling.” He chuckled. “I just need as much out of my face as possible. Preferably half up, something like that.”

 

“What’s the superstition behind it?” Jim asked curiously. He began to twist the hair strategically, folding the shorter pieces under longer pieces to help it all stay in place.

 

Freddie laughed shyly; Jim could tell that whatever it was, it made him happy to think about. “When I had my first exam, I had no idea that boys had to do anything with their hair, so I went in with it down. They told me I had to get it back out my face.” He broke off to laugh again. “So I go to Mama all panicked, and she rips a piece off her scarf and uses it to tie my hair back. I love the style, but I can never seem to get it right when I do it.”

 

Jim secured tiny segments back with little pins, working to keep it smooth and neat. Freddie picked up his shoes and set to work on preparing them; the pair he’d originally set aside for his exam had gone soft the night before, in his pre-exam class. Jim watched with fascination as Freddie tore the shoe away from the shank and bent it right back, listening with satisfaction to the crackle and snap that it made. Next, he folded the shoe completely in half, snapping the board; then he took a craft knife to the bottom and began scraping at the sole.

 

“Poor things.” Jim muttered and Freddie laughed, grabbing his shoe by the heel and smacking the toe box against the floor to soften it.

 

“Usually I wouldn’t do this, and especially not at this time in the morning, but I can’t be loud today.” He pressed down on the top of the toe box, digging through the palm of his hand to pop it.

 

“I can’t understand how no one has taken the time to design a better-prepared shoe.” Jim chuckled, pressing a brief kiss to Freddie’s jaw as he retrieved the satin from where it lay on his knee. Freddie grabbed his needle and set to work sewing the ribbons, taking just a little more care with it to ensure that they were neater than usual.

 

“You’d think they would by now.” Freddie hummed, checking the length of the ribbon quickly before grabbing the rosin to grind into the toe. “I discovered this stuff the other day, and it’s magical. I don’t have to darn them anymore. It stops me from slipping.”

 

Jim first secured his hair with a little elastic, and then tied the satin over the top to hide it completely. He let the material drape against the rest of Freddie’s hair; the yellow satin looked so good against the darkness.

 

Freddie carefully pulled his toe pad on, and then the shoe over the top. He pulled the drawstring tight, tied it, and then cut off the extra. “You know, I think I’d almost be a little sad if I didn’t get to do this anymore. There’s something about customising them that really gets you in the right mindset.”

 

He held onto the edge of the balcony as he went up, feeling the protest through his ankles; they were sore and tired, not used to going up so many times a week. He reminded himself to put gel on them before he went into the exam. “They’re good.” He murmured, more to himself than anyone else, placing all his weight in one foot and then on the other.

 

Freddie’s silhouette was gorgeous. Jim couldn’t help the way his gaze trailed over each of his body in turn, over the strong, lean muscles that gave him so much trouble and yet created something beautiful with his help. He stood up behind Freddie and wrapped his arms around him from behind, pressing a slow kiss to the underside of his jaw. “You look incredible.”

 

He heard the soft breath of a laugh as Freddie tilted his head back to look at his lover. “Thank you for doing my hair, darling.” He murmured, soft lips warm against his own.

 

* * *

 

“My darling, you’re limping!” Freddie had always been observant, but especially when it came to changes in a person’s physique. He had come bounding out of the Opera House with the biggest smile on his face, but he’d forgotten all about his news as soon as he’d seen his lover in pain.

 

“Freddie-” Jim laughed, practically having to stop Freddie from trying to diagnose him right there. “Freddie, sweetheart, it’s just a sore ankle.” He promised. “Coach was just especially focused on agility today, and I turned it awkwardly.”

 

Freddie pouted and Jim wanted to kiss him right there, in the middle of the street, God as his witness.

 

He held back. They’d never done outward affection in public, nor discussed it.

 

“What kind of pain is it?” Freddie was persisting again when Jim started listening. “Is it like a bruise pain, or is it more of an ache in the muscles and the tendons?”

 

Jim placed a hand just under his jawline; it was an invitation, if he wanted to take it, but innocent enough to not be misconstrued. “How about I take you out for lunch, and we’ll discuss it somewhere that isn’t the wrong side of freezing cold?” He asked playfully.

 

He wasn’t expecting the sweet kiss that Freddie dropped on his lips, but he took it happily. “C’mon, you pretty little thing, let’s get some food. You can tell me all about your exam on the way there.”

 

Freddie lit up immediately; it was as though he’d forgotten all about his morning. “How do you think I did, darling?” He asked, taking one of Jim’s hands as they walked together. He was confident that Paul was nowhere to be seen: he worked at the English during the day, over in South Kensington.

 

Jim pretended to think about, humouring Freddie’s playfulness. “I think, sweetheart, that you got…” He squeezed Freddie’s hand, grinning as he pretended to be confused. “I think you got a distinction.”

 

“Correct!” Freddie said happily. Jim wanted to live forever in that moment. “I got a 99. He dropped me a mark because I moved when I wasn’t supposed to, but in my defence, he did put his hand on my rib.” He added quickly.

 

Jim pulled them both into a cafe and Freddie insisted he sit down to rest his ankle while he ordered. He couldn’t help but laugh at Freddie’s insistence: the man had numbed his feet and ankles to get through the exam, and yet he was insisting that Jim had to rest his slightly tender foot.

 

Freddie brought their receipt over and laid it on the table, before sitting opposite Jim. “Darling, you never told me what type of pain it is.” He chastised him; Jim found himself laughing at the way he furrowed his eyebrows in concern.

 

He leaned across the table to take Freddie’s hand. “It’s just some muscle aches around my tendon.” He said softly, trying to placate Freddie. No sooner had he said the words than Freddie was picking up his bag from the floor, pulling out a tiny pot of heating ointment.

 

“Put this on the soft bit of the inside of your ankle.” Freddie wasn’t there for arguments, Jim could tell by his tone. “In between your tendon and your joint. It works wonders, darling, I promise.”

 

Jim did as he was told, smiling despite himself. He felt quickly the way in which the warmth bit through the pain and numbed the sore muscles; he found himself undeniably impressed by Freddie’s knowledge.

 

When he glanced up again, Freddie was cradling the biggest hot chocolate known to man. His nose was daubed in sweet whipped cream and he had a look of childish excitement behind his eyes.

 

Unthinking, Jim leaned across and kissed his lips clean. The sweetness was addictive, the sugar of his personality and his very existence, the candied glaze that he’d given every moment of Jim’s waking life.


	42. Safety in Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim won't let the both of them be deceived anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this has taken so long to upload!!!! This is not the upload speed that I pride myself on and I am v v sorry. As an extra, the next chapter is a sweet little bonus chapter that you are going to LOVE, I promise. xoxo

_ Why did you do it? _

 

_ Who knows? _

 

_ Was it jealousy? _

 

_ I’m not jealous of him. If he wants a two-bit tramp, he can have it. _

 

_ Then what was it? _

 

_ Revenge. A matter of principle. _

 

_ Revenge for what? _

 

_ Taking what’s mine. _

 

* * *

 

Jim’s gut had twisted when he’d glanced up at the clock and seen that Freddie had been in the shower for over twenty minutes. He didn’t usually like to dawdle, especially on a night like tonight when he’d come back from his physio completely exhausted, both mentally and physically. It had been a hard one for him, a real test of his stamina versus the pain that made itself known with each and every movement. It had been the first day without the rib belt on, the material there to stabilise him each and every time he coughed. 

 

Freddie had looked miserable when he’d finished at ballet that evening. He was overly tired, in pain, suffering from each breath he took. He hadn’t been as affectionate when he’d seen Jim, nor had he been as talkative: a few passing comments in response to questions about his day, and half-hearted questions in an attempt to keep the motions going.

 

Maybe Jim should have put his foot down when Freddie had gone for the shower; maybe he should have reasoned that he needed to rest, that right now it was more important to take some painkillers and to get some sleep. Instead, he’d sat in their room, ear pricked to every little noise coming from the bathroom.

 

Now, his ear was trained on deadly silence, and it was making him nervous.

 

“Freddie?” Jim called out as he knocked on the door to the little bathroom, ear pressed to the door to hear for any sudden movements. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

 

He didn’t want to intrude, not at a time where Freddie appreciated his privacy the most, but he couldn’t soothe the worry in his stomach that something had happened.

 

“Freddie?” He tried again, voice a little louder; he was trying not to make a scene in front of their other housemates, but he was concerned that he couldn’t be heard over the running water from the shower.

 

After another minute of complete silence, Jim carefully edged the door open, taking a quick glance at the surroundings. Pajamas folded on the side, where he always left them resting; toothbrush still wet on the sink; hair towel folded and neat on the towel rail.

 

Freddie sat on the step, a towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, head resting against the tiled wall, out cold.

 

Jim was momentarily taken aback: he hadn’t realised that Freddie looked so damn awful that day. He knew he’d spent the previous night with Paul, trying to annul any suspicions, but he hadn’t noticed the fresh bruises on his torso that had blossomed in their time apart. He looked pale, the colour drained from his skin; he looked strangely gaunt, though Jim knew he was healthier now than he had been for a long while. 

 

He moved forward, crouched in front of Freddie, and gently tapped his cheek with two fingers. No response. He could feel how rapid his heartbeat was, short, shallow, sharp breaths trying to restore the oxygen to his brain. 

 

Freddie had become so used to these spells that he’d learned to sit himself down before he lost consciousness. It minimised the damage that way, there wasn’t as far to fall. It made Jim sad to think about how frequent these times were becoming, how often he had to revive him: in the shower, in the kitchen, in the studio, even the one awful time that he’d had to do it in the interval of a show.

 

He picked him up ever-so-carefully, one hand under his back and the other behind his knees, holding him safe and firm against his chest. The air of the bathroom was thick with steam, and Jim could only imagine trying to breathe heavily in such a space. He felt short, warm breaths roll over his collarbone, and was slightly placated: in the beginning, he used to harbour a fear that the breaths would stop at any second, but he knew by now that Freddie was stronger than that.

 

He carried him back into their bedroom and lay him down carefully on the bed; he propped his feet up on a cushion and pushed the window at the head of their bed open. He knelt beside him on the floor and ran his knuckles back and forth over Freddie’s cheek.

 

Sometimes he felt like crying. It was hard, it was so hard, to see your lover in pain, sick, and to not be able to do anything about it.  He wished that he could get Freddie help, more than just the intensive physiotherapy to get him moving again. For Jim, it wasn’t all about movement: it was about annulling the pain, finally. It was like the final stage of keeping him safe.

 

He hadn’t even managed to keep Freddie and Paul from one another yet, a much bigger cause for concern. Seeing the bruises on his torso - some were so dangerously close to his rib, and it made Jim feel sick - made him feel as though he was failing to keep him healthy and happy and safe. He was allowing his lover to be beaten black and blue, entirely passively.

 

He wouldn’t stand for it anymore.

 

Freddie stirred a little and Jim glanced up at his face quickly, as those beautiful eyes opened once again; he let out the sweetest sigh of relief as he ran his thumb over Freddie’s cheekbone. “Welcome back, beautiful.” He murmured softly; Freddie smiled tiredly in response.

 

It was the first genuine smile that Jim had seen that day.

 

“What happened?” Freddie’s speech was still a little slurred, and the colour of his skin was a little off its usual warmth. He tried to sit up. “What time is it?”

 

“Hey-” Jim rested a hand on his shoulder. “Stay lying down for me, sweetheart, else you might faint again.” He said quietly. He moved so that he was laying next to Freddie and pressed a short kiss to his lips. “It’s just after nine. You fainted while you were in the shower, so I had to come in and get you.”

 

Freddie nodded tiredly and curled closer to him; after the evening before, he wanted nothing more than to feel loved for a little while. “Secret’s out then, I guess?” He said softly, looking down at the purple smudges on his chest and stomach. “He wasn’t too happy that I hadn’t been home in a few days.”

 

Jim could see the exhaustion, the strain of a long day and not enough sleep behind Freddie’s eyes. He ran a hand through his hair and dropped a small kiss on his forehead. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. You’re safe.” He promised, bringing the blanket up around the both of them. “You’re safe now, sweetheart.”

 

Freddie was fighting a losing battle with sleep. He made a soft noise of appreciation into Jim’s chest, holding on tight to the t-shirt that he was wearing.

 

Jim breathed out slowly. At least for tonight, he was safe.


	43. Rubies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good day, all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids I got a free ticket to a screening of the Royal in May and I am VERY EXCITED to watch the whole three hours oh my god. Also this was meant to be a bonus chapter but it's actually ended up being relevant to the plot so yay, we love.
> 
> If you haven't read the chapter I uploaded this morning (safety in numbers) then make sure you read that first!!

Jim had never seen Freddie so caffeinated and so stressed in his whole life. For a man who stuck to his tea, the two coffees he’d had before his warm-up were enough to get him jittering, hands shaking, giggling mindlessly at the smallest of things. In hindsight, the energy drink he’d had in his break between rehearsals and the performance that evening probably wasn’t a good idea; he clutched to the barre as he brought movement back into his muscles, still warm from the heat of the rehearsal rooms.

 

Apparently, it was deliberate, Freddie had told him. They kept the rooms warm so that their muscles wouldn’t cool as quickly. 

 

Freddie, new to rosin, was still getting used to having to apply it quickly, on the move. He tucked his hair behind his ear as he glanced down at his feet, grinding the rocks carefully with his toes. Jim stood behind him and carefully held him, hands firm on his waist, taking some of the strain away from his body. He’d woken up sore that morning, far sorer than usual; rib, ankles, and thighs all protesting when he so much as ventured to shower. The last thing that either of them needed now was for Freddie to injure himself minutes before a performance.

 

He relaxed into those hands: to keep himself up on one toe was an awful strain on his core, and it still hurt his rib to tense those muscles. He had perfected the art of drowning it out in performance, too high on adrenaline and endorphins to truly recognise the pain in his side, but it was quiet times like this that the familiar worry bloomed in his chest.

 

_ Maybe I’m doing damage. Dance isn’t supposed to hurt like this. _

 

He went back down, trying his best to stay off his toes before the performance. He couldn’t mess up this character on opening night, not when he’d worked so hard to be here, to be the prince. The role had practically been created for him, and though he knew he had an understudy if it got too much, he hated the idea of someone else getting credit for his role, becoming the first to perform it.

 

Jim kissed the back of his head, looking at the two of them in the mirror and smiling. “How are you doing, sweetheart?” He asked softly, mindless of the chaos in the room around them. He’d always imagined that dance was such a peaceful job, that the dancers remained calm, fluid, easy as they went through the movements before they went onstage.

 

He couldn’t have been more wrong, but he almost preferred it that way. Little snippets of half-dances, hastily applied gels and creams, crowns falling out of hair and tights ripping at the last second. Knowing that all this happened to create something so effortless on stage almost made the whole process feel more real.

 

“I’m nervous.” Freddie sent Jim a shy smile in the mirror, taking a moment to just allow himself to relax. He didn’t often get stressed before a performance, but a combination of factors were playing on his mind now. His brow furrowed as he started to cough, the pain leaving him grabbing for the barre again. He’d been wearing a rib belt until now, but it didn’t give him the flexibility that he needed for performance; Jim pressed the palm of his hand quickly to where the break was, stabilising it while he coughed. He felt awful, knowing the sheer agony of it just being touched, but he knew it would be worse if the break was thrown out of alignment again.

 

He brought his other arm around Freddie’s stomach to help him stay upright; he had a tendency to curl inwards when the pain got bad, but it was easier to stop the coughing if he kept his torso straight. 

 

“Jim-” Freddie was gritting his teeth, trying to stop the coughing, but the tension in his lungs only served to make the pain worse.

 

“Hey, hey, come on-” Jim said softly. “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you, deep breaths.” He murmured, another round of coughs jolting through his body before they finally subsided. He carefully took his hand away from his rib, turning and looking over him quickly. “Freddie, sweetheart, talk to me.”

 

“Hurts.” He eventually managed, breath slowing to its regular pace.

 

“Do you need some tablets?” Jim asked. At Freddie’s nod, he grabbed the pills from his bag, popping out two before handing them to him with his water bottle. “We’ll take these now, and if it’s still really bad between acts, we’ll have some more then, okay?”

 

Freddie swallowed them quickly, and Jim could tell that it was one concern gone from his mind. “Thank you, darling.” He said after a while, shooting Jim an apologetic smile. 

 

Both men turned their heads when the curtain call was announced; Freddie turned back quickly to Jim with an expression both frightened and so excited. His third performance as a company member, and his first principal role. Jim kissed him quickly, smiling against his lips as Freddie hugged him as though it were to be their last ever embrace.

 

“I love you.” Jim said softly; he felt drunk on the way that Freddie’s cheeks pinkened. “You’re going to do so well, sweetheart. Blow them away.” He kissed Freddie’s forehead gently.

 

“I love you.” Freddie echoed, blowing him one last kiss before running to join the other dancers.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve got twenty minutes until I go back on and the fucking shank’s gone soft-” Freddie spoke breathlessly as he tugged off his left shoe. “I haven’t prepped another pair, I need to go grab one right now-” Off came the right and Freddie laughed as Jim kissed the back of his neck. “Darling, you have to let me go!” He pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Jim’s mouth and ran off down the corridor.

 

Jim smiled as he leaned against the wall and watched him. The pain seemed to be pretty much forgotten, and Freddie had performed flawlessly in the first act. Of course, he’d been to the ballet before, but it was different this time, knowing one of the dancers: he was lost in the beauty of Freddie’s form, of just how truly incredible his lover was. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his face-

 

“Jim!” Freddie’s voice was more of a screech as he came clattering down the corridor; how he could run in those shoes was an absolute fucking mystery to Jim. He launched himself at Jim, who just about managed to catch him in time; Freddie was shaking with the force of his laughter, looking truly elated.

 

“What is it, darling?” Jim laughed as he held Freddie easily with one arm, using the other to repin a strand of loose hair. He felt a world away from how he had before the performance: forty-five minutes of being a beauty onstage had repaired his confidence more than anything in the whole world. 

 

“I got Rubies!” Freddie hugged him so tightly, legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck. “I auditioned for Jewels before I got injured, and they gave me the principal for Rubies!”

 

Jim hugged him so tightly, one arm on his waist and the other up on his shoulders, and pressed a kiss to his temple. Freddie was getting his stage makeup all over his shirt, and he couldn’t even begin to complain: it was so incredible to see Freddie so happy, so successful. “I’m so proud of you.” He murmured softly, pulling back a little to kiss him properly. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Freddie, you’re amazing.” 

 

Eventually, Freddie got down to start working on his shoes; his face paled when he realised that it was five minutes until the next act. “I don’t have the time to get this done.” He said nervously, glancing at Jim.

 

He knelt beside him on the floor. He’d watched him do this a hundred times, how hard could it be? “It’s the left that’s gone soft, so you do the right, then you’ll have a functioning if mismatched pair.” He suggested. “But I’ll give the left one a go for you.”

 

Freddie kissed his cheek. “Shank in, then out, then bash the box and crush it, sew the elastic above the seam and the ribbon below it, then put rosin on the end.” He repeated what Jim had seen every time he’d prepared them.

 

The shoe felt heavy in his hand, but he couldn’t overthink this; he tore the shank half from the shoe and bent it inwards until it snapped. “I love Rubies so much.” Freddie told him; he looked so excited, and Jim wanted him to have that expression for the rest of time. He bent the whole shoe in on itself, and then out; he smacked the toe box against the floor and then crushed it with the palm of his hand. 

 

“It’s such a fun, abstract ballet. It’s not like anything I’ve ever done before.” The sewing was possibly the hardest bit, but the ribbon and the elastic stayed put when he tested it with his hand. Finally, he ground rosin into the end of the toe, and helped Freddie get the shoe on.

 

Freddie stood and twirled playfully, taking an extra moment to test the shoe that Jim had prepared. He kissed him quickly as their curtain call was announced. “It’s perfect, darling.” He said softly, running to backstage.

 

Watching Freddie move was an electrifying experience: his character was so playful, and he acted up to it perfectly in the subtlety of his head movements, the quick snap away as he happened to catch the glance of the man across the stage. The delicacy of his movements as he played an artful game of hide-and-seek around the bedroom onstage, moving so gracefully into the most intricate of positions. The speed that he could move as he edged closer, the sexual tension between the two stifling as Freddie allowed himself to be thrown around, to be moved so gracefully and then grabbed at the next second, a ballet of possession and of beauty and of exploration in a brand new world.

 

Jim sat forward, elbows on knees as he watched his lover, so lost in the story of the two men onstage that he almost forgot that he was watching the man he loved. Momentarily, he searched himself for any jealousy that Freddie was there, being kissed by another man onstage, drawing gasps from audience members at the simultaneous brutality and delicacy of the movements. Rough hands grabbed at him, kept him still, kept him twirling on one toe, completely at the mercy of the other man. Soft lips pulled him in, distracted him from each position, gave each movement a character and intention of its own.

 

He couldn’t feel jealousy. All he could feel was awe.

 

* * *

 

Freddie came straight into the audience when he was finished, down the steps and straight into Jim’s arms. Jim laughed and hugged him tightly, holding him so close. “You’re incredible.” He murmured. “You’re fucking beautiful, baby, you looked so amazing up there, that was the best performance I’ve ever seen.”

 

Freddie squeezed him tightly, the smile on his face indelible. He hadn’t felt this way in such a long time, such a mixture of happiness, of pride, of true exhilaration and love and safety. “I love you.” He said softly. Jim’s heart leaped - it was the first time that Freddie had been the one to say it first. “I love you so much, Jim, so much.”

 

Jim kissed him softly, tasting the sweetness of the words on his lips. It tasted like chocolate, creamy and rich against his tongue; he smiled to himself. Maybe that was the lip balm. “I love you too.” He murmured softly. “I love you so much, sweetheart, you’re the most incredible man I know.”

 

“Jim.” Freddie sighed happily, and Jim’s heart melted at how Freddie went back onto pointe - onto pointe, after a three-hour show, when he would be so tired and so sore - just to kiss him properly. “Oh, darling.” He murmured softly.

 

“Freddie.” Jim chuckled, laughing a little as Freddie pressed kisses to the side of his mouth. “Freddie, sweetheart, slow down.” He grinned, hands on Freddie’s waist to coax him away a little. “I bought you something. A little well done present.”

 

Freddie’s face lit up like a child at Christmas. “For me?” He asked excitedly. “For this, or for Rubies?”

 

Jim grinned. “Well, darling, for both. But now I think about it, it’s far more suitable for Rubies.” He pulled a little ring box from his jacket pocket, revealing the most gorgeous ring that Freddie had ever seen. A thin gold band, one ruby in the centre, diamonds either side. Freddie looked up, lost for words, pink spots appearing on the apples of his cheeks.

 

“Calm down, sweetheart, I’m not proposing to you.” After a moment, Jim grinned. “Yet. I just know that you used to wear your old one until you gave it to Kash. I wanted you to have this, darling. It’s a family heirloom, and it’ll look so pretty on you.”

 

Freddie cupped his cheeks and kissed him again, standing on the most perfect pointe to be just the right height. “I love you so much.” Freddie murmured. “Oh, darling, it’s perfect!” He watched as Jim slipped it onto the ring finger of his left hand.

 

“It’s not an engagement ring.” Jim repeated. “But I like the story of that finger too much. That finger is your wedding finger because it has a vein that runs the whole way to your heart. And darling, I want this to be close to your heart.”

 

Freddie stood back on his heels and cupped his hands close to his chest. “Always.” He murmured. “I promise, my dear, no matter what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to Rubies (a very fun dance, I love Steve McRae so much he's literally how I see Freddie): https://youtu.be/OTNc2LblgGs


	44. Green Glass Bottles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But you belong to me, until the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely the worst chapter in the whole of Fluorescent in terms of violence, derogatory talk surrounding rape victims, cruelty, domestic violence etc. Please read with your discretion!

_New Ballet ‘The Prince’ Takes The Opera House By Storm!_

 

_Talk Of Youngest Ever Principal At The Royal Ballet._

 

_Exclusive Interview With Olga Evreinoff On ‘The Prince’ And Latest Star Freddie Mercury!_

 

_Missed ‘The Prince’? Here’s Your Chance To See Freddie Mercury In Performance!_

 

_Freddie Mercury Causing Chaos At The Royal Ballet._

 

_Gender Roles? No Thank You! How One Man Took Ballet By Storm._

 

_Freddie Mercury 3-1 Odds For Rudolph In Mayerling!_

 

_Olga Evreinoff On The Royal’s New NINETEEN Year Old Principal!_

 

* * *

 

 

He tiptoed into the house, the clock having ticked well after midnight; after a double performance, a matinee and an evening show, the final rounds of his first principal role, he’d been coaxed into a few drinks in celebration.

 

Now he felt heavy, he felt tired, and he just wanted to curl up to sleep on the sofa in Paul’s house and deal with this whole mess in the morning.

 

He hung up his heavy jacket and shucked off his boots, placing them neatly together on the floor. As he stood back up, a fist connected with his ribs from behind and he cried out, falling forwards into the wall.

 

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

 

The words that he’d been dreading, that had been repeated a thousand times in his nightmares. This wouldn’t go the way he wanted it to.

 

Freddie turned around, ignoring the scorching, burning pain running through his ribs. “Darling-” Freddie said breathlessly, trying to placate him with all the sweetness and charm in the world. Suddenly, this had become a mission for survival.

 

Paul cut him off with a slap, so forceful that Freddie’s head snapped to the side. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out that you were whoring around with another man?” The voice was dangerous: Paul stood so close, and Freddie could see the glint of those steel-capped boots that he knew too well.

 

“It’s not like that-” Freddie started, but he was cut off when Paul pushed him against the wall. 

 

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

 

Freddie was losing control so quickly: he’d never seen that glint of intention in Paul’s eyes before, the promise that tonight was going to hurt. “Of course not, darling.” He whispered; he tried to sound so innocent, wanting to bring down the intensity of the situation.

 

“So you don’t think I’m stupid, but you think it’s perfectly okay to make a fucking idiot of me by whoring yourself out to another man for everyone to see?” Paul stepped back a little and Freddie tried to breathe, tried not to be seized by panic.

 

The bottle slammed into the side of his head, hard, glass shattering as it hit his skin, Freddie shattering as he hit the floor. Fingers found their way into his hair, pulled his head up and then smacked it down against the floor, hard.

 

One.

 

Two.

 

Three.

 

Four.

 

Freddie lost count as pain exploded through his skull; he tried to do anything, to move away, to fight back, but he was paralysed by the strength of the man above him.

 

“I won’t fucking stand for it anymore!” Paul shouted, crushing his head against the floor once more before standing up, standing back, surveying his work.

 

Blood was trickling from his nose and mouth, and the glass had cut deep into his skin.

 

It wasn’t enough, this time.

 

“Do you know what they all think about you at the Royal?” Paul rested a boot on Freddie’s chest as he moved to sit back up: to be down was to be weak, and he couldn’t afford to be weak.

 

He curled his left hand inside his right. He’d protect the ring.

 

“Do you know what they call you behind your back?” The heel of the boot pushed against his rib and Freddie whimpered pathetically. “They call you the company whore. He’ll spread his legs for anybody that’ll pay him the slightest bit of attention. He’ll suck off any man he needs to get to the top.”

 

Perhaps the words stung more than the injuries.

 

_ Whore _ .

 

“That’s how you got those roles, isn’t it? You got real close to the casting director, close enough to get to his belt.”

 

It was lies, it was all lies, but it was what everyone thought.

 

“That’s why you want me. You only ever wanted me because I had contacts you could only dream of. I had the experience, the talent, the knowledge. You just knew how to put those pretty red lips to good use.”

 

Freddie sobbed as the break dislodged, the pain making him curl up instinctively. If he didn’t get out of here, something would break and he’d never be the same again, he’d be leaving in a black bag on a one-way trip to the local river and then to the morgue.

 

He gasped raggedly, tried to move backwards. _No one would miss him, even if he went. Singers were the easiest to find. Dancers were easily replaceable. Jim could find a lover that could satisfy him._

 

“You wanted me, because you wanted to be me. That’s why you rolled over with your legs in the air and made all those pretty sounds for me.”

 

Freddie wanted to be sick.

 

“I bet no one else makes you purr like that, slut.”

 

The word flared anger up in Freddie's body; he had to speak, even if it cost him everything.

 

“I never want to be like you.” He gasped, rolling onto his side as Paul moved his boot away. It hurt too much to lie on his back any longer, and he couldn’t sit upright anymore. “I never wanted you to do those things.”

 

“You’re a dirty fucking liar.” Paul’s tone was almost conversational. “Your body wanted me so badly, baby. How many times did you make a mess because of me, hm? You liked it rough.”

 

He didn’t want to relive the memories. He didn’t want to fall back into the pit of hating a body that had betrayed him so badly.

 

“No one’s ever going to love some spoiled brat that doesn’t know how to say thank you.”

 

Freddie reached out to grab him: he wanted him to hurt, to fall, to bleed, to feel what it felt like to be the man down.

 

Paul stepped backwards and smirked.

 

“You know, baby, the men at the Royal like to draw up a rota of who gets you next. Who gets your mouth, who gets your cock, who gets your hole. You’re their property now.”

 

He closed his eyes tightly, crammed his hands over his ears.

 

“But you belong to me, until the end.”

 

_ One. _

 

Freddie screamed as the boot connected with his ribs, the steel knocking the broken one back.

 

_ Two. _

 

He sobbed raggedly. “I’m sorry-” He panted, voice barely a thread of sound.

 

_ Three.  _

 

The third kick was harder. That was when he realised.

 

_ Four. _

 

He wasn’t meant to get out of here alive.

 

_ Five. _

 

Freddie groaned out in agony, but his voice was thin.

 

_ Six. _

 

That was his lung.

 

_ Seven. _

 

He couldn’t breathe; the breaths were so shallow, he was choking.

 

_ Eight. _

 

He could hear Olga in the back of his head.

 

_ Nine. _

 

The ninth kick was when he lost his vision, the ringing in his ears drowning out everything.

 

_ Ten. _

 

_ You’ll end up puncturing a lung if you’re not careful. _


	45. Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is not always as it seems.

_ I’m arresting you on suspicion of assault actuating in bodily harm. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence against you. _

 

* * *

 

Freddie had always made the sweetest little sounds when he was asleep. A naturally affectionate boy, he had a tendency to clutch onto things: first stuffed toys, then his pillow, then people. When she was three, and he was four, Kash could remember laying next to him in bed, listening to the soft sounds of satisfaction that left his lips. He was curled tight around her, protecting her from the monsters under the bed in his sleep.

 

She loved him so much.

 

Kash smiled and kissed the back of his hand. He looked so peaceful in that hospital bed, and she was willing to live in that fantasy for a little while longer that everything would be fine now. He was curled up, draped in that warm blanket that John had brought from home; although he was still wearing his hospital gown for now, he had a pair of Jim’s sweatpants and a sweater waiting for when he woke up.

 

The time was approaching six in the morning, and she’d been awake since one, since she’d gotten that awful call from the hospital.

 

_ “We’re sorry to inform you that we have taken Freddie straight into surgery. As you’re his only family in the UK, we’re obliged to contact you to let you know his circumstances. If you cannot come, we would appreciate you passing on the contact details of someone that can.” _

 

The guys were all in the waiting room outside: Brian was trying to keep himself awake with a novel, while Roger spread himself out over several chairs to nap while he waited. John couldn’t seem to sit still.

 

Due to the nature of the investigation, it was family-only, no matter how much she reasoned with the doctors and the police officers. He’d been flagged as a domestic abuse victim, and this was the first safeguard to keep him safe.

 

“Miss Bulsara?” The doctor’s voice was soft, and the hand on her back was warm. She didn’t even realise she’d fallen asleep, cheek pressed to their joined hands. “I’ve come to give you the post-surgery report. If now isn’t a good time, I can leave you a written copy instead.”

 

Kash didn’t trust herself to read it correctly on an hour’s sleep. “No, no.” She yawned, rubbed her eyes quickly. “Go ahead. How’s he doing?”

 

The doctor smiled and sat beside her, looking over Freddie. “Of course there’ll be pain when he wakes up, but you might actually find that it’s decreased from before. Our scans showed that he was suffering a severely fractured left fifth rib, that’s the one-”

 

Kash smiled tiredly. “I’m a med student, don’t worry.” She chuckled. “Observer’s right-hand side, halfway down the torso between the collarbone and the waist.”

 

She smiled when he laughed; at least somebody wasn’t concerned by the situation. “Correct. A fractured left fifth rib, which pierced the left lung. He was also struggling with a brain edema, but we believe that may have been a prolonged injury worsened by the assault.”

 

She took a long breath and glanced at Freddie. She’d always known he was strong, but maybe she hadn’t given him enough credit.

 

“We took the decision to remove the rib entirely. Because of its position, this doesn’t make him more vulnerable in any way; it’s actually the best way to make sure that there’s no further damage to the lung. It should also help to decrease his pain. We have reason to believe that the rib may have been out of alignment while it was healing, which would’ve been truly excruciating for him.”

 

Freddie moved slightly; his heart monitor began to speed up and Kash glanced up quickly. He settled on his right side, eyes fluttering momentarily before he settled completely again.

 

“The puncture in his lung, thankfully, was much more minor that it could’ve been. Reinflating the lung was a fairly easy procedure, and we believe that should heal itself so long as he rests for a little while.” The doctor looked at the bruising on the side of his head, the stitches from the glass, and sighed. “He protected himself well: it’s the mark of a seasoned victim. We can also put it down to his exemplary health and physical fitness.”

 

“And the edema?” Kash asked tiredly.

 

“Whilst he was in surgery, we were able to drastically decrease the pressure on his brain. As I said, it appears to have been fairly substantial swelling for quite a while, which would explain any fainting, confusion, unexplained nausea, anything like that. He shouldn’t have any excess pressure anymore.”

 

The fainting.

 

She’d never been more thankful for an explanation, and more so for a treatment.

 

“Thank you.” She smiled as he stood up; she shook his hand before he left the room.

 

He’d be okay.

  
  


She woke up again when fingers traced themselves over the worry lines on her forehead. She opened her eyes; heavy, groggy, weighed down with the desire to sleep. They met their complementary set, fogged a little by the medication, and she couldn’t help the relieved sigh.

 

“Freddie.” She said softly, grasping his cold hand in both of hers. “Freddie, are you okay? How’s the pain?” She asked gently.

 

She calmed at his smile, she always had. “I’m okay.” His voice was croaky, but Kash put that down to the anaesthesia. “Pain is good.” The smile was lopsided, sleepy, but it was genuine. Ironically, Kash considered, this might be the least pain he’d been in for a long time.

 

“You’re going to be okay, Freddie.” Kash said softly. “You’ve been through a round of surgery, and it explained so much. Your brain had been swollen for a long time, and that’s why you were fainting. They’ve fixed that for you.”

 

Freddie’s eyes had closed again, but the way that he visibly relaxed told Kash he was listening. “They took out that rib, the one that was hurting you. They’ve fixed your lung too.”

 

“Thank fuck.” Kash laughed at the bluntness of the comment, but it was a little forced: she didn’t want to tell him the other part of the news.

 

“Freddie?” She asked quietly: Freddie’s eyes opened again as he recognised the seriousness of her tone. “There’s something else that you need to know.”

 

“What is it?” He asked, glancing at his ring; he’d protected it. Thin gold band, one central ruby, diamonds either side.

 

“Two men were arrested for assault, Freddie.” She took his hand again. “And Jim’s not here right now.”

 

She felt sick to her stomach, in the same way that they all had when they’d heard the news. They’d trusted him this whole time, trusted that he was there to love and to protect Freddie, from that first moment he’d walked miles in the middle of the night to get him home. He’d encouraged him to recover, helped him to come to terms with so many little things, soothed nightmares and kissed away tears.

 

All for him to be arrested on a night where Freddie had suffered an attempt on his life.

 

But it all added up. Passively allowing Freddie to go back to Paul; flaunting their relationship in public with kisses and overt affection; always knowing what injuries he had and how to soothe them; the times he disappeared, didn’t answer calls. He’d solidified Freddie’s identity as a victim, abused it, used it for attention and affection to then put him back into the hands of the man who would try to end him.

 

It made sense of why the photos showed him on that road by the time Freddie had passed out, of why he’d been arrested with blood on his hands.

 

He’d been in on it the whole time.


	46. Jewels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's my word against his, and he's hardly the paragon of virtue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all love Roger's sixth sense! Sorry for the reupload, AO3 was being weird and wasn't showing this chapter properly in listings!

_ “I’m here for Freddie Mercury.” _

 

_ “I’m afraid it’s family only, sir. Due to the nature of his injuries, I’m not permitted to allow in anybody who is not a direct relation, or married to him.” _

 

_ “But I need to see him.” _

 

_ “If you leave some contact details with the front desk, they’ll be able to give you a call when the restrictions are relaxed.” _

 

_ “You don’t understand.” A pause. “I was there, I need to know that he’s okay.” _

 

Roger stood up, ignoring the tight grip that Brian had on his wrist. Maybe the others didn’t trust Jim anymore, but he did. He trusted that Jim wasn’t involved in this; there were too many inconsistencies for him. The same man that assaulted him wouldn’t be the one to call the ambulance. It would’ve been very easy to end his life right there, and yet he hadn’t.

 

If Roger knew Freddie at all, then Freddie would want Jim there.

 

His mind drifted to the ring, the one that Freddie had shown everybody with so much pride, the one that he always took off to wash his hands, the one that glinted when he had his hand wrapped around a microphone.

 

If Freddie didn’t want him, that would be gone. There were little dimples in the skin of his cheek from where he’d slept with that ring pressed against his face.

 

He missed Jim.

 

“Ma’am.” Roger said tiredly as he approached the front desk. He took in the sight of Jim: he looked wrecked, so tired and so sad. He clutched a bag full of Freddie’s things, and Roger’s heart melted at the sight of his nightmare teddy-bear, the one that Freddie had stuffed in his suitcase when he moved to England for the first time. “Ma’am, this is Mr. Mercury’s fiance. He wants to see him.”

 

He saw the way that she stiffened: technically, fiance was family. 

  
  


Freddie rolled over, heavy with sleep. After working on minimal rest for months, he had decided that he would take all the sleep he could get now. As he did, his face and arms found a soft lump in the bed bedside him. He absentmindedly dragged it closer, pressing his nose into the familiar fabric that smelled like home.

 

Maybe it was ridiculous, a nineteen-year-old man and a stuffed animal, but it was comforting.

 

As he settled back into sleep, he felt fingers carefully brushing back the hair that was hanging in his face, irritating his nose. The pads were so soft, so gentle against his skin; the tension left his body as he let himself be looked after. He assumed it was Kash, back already after only a few hours sleep - he’d tell her off for that later.

 

Jim wanted nothing more than to slide into the bed beside him, to keep him warm, to tell him all the good news, and the bad news, to make sure that he understood everything without somebody biased telling him. But Freddie was tired, and Jim wasn’t going to be the one to wake him up. He dragged the chair a little closer to the bed, rested his head on one hand; he wouldn’t let his eyes close until he knew that Freddie was okay.

 

He’d memorised the way that Freddie woke by now. It usually started with him clutching closer, taking in a long, deep breath and then exhaling slowly. It always tickled as it rolled over Jim’s collarbones. He would settle down for a few moments longer before he would stretch, usually bumping Jim with a shoulder or an elbow or accidentally poking him. The left eye would open first, but the right one would stay closed a little while longer as he adjusted to the light level in the room. After a while, he’d sit up, leaning over to kiss his lover awake, a paradoxical Sleeping Beauty.

 

As the left eye opened, Freddie caught sight of Jim, and suddenly he was awake, surging upwards to grab onto his hand. “Jim!” His voice was clearer this time, his eyes brighter.

 

Jim laughed and carefully rested his other hand on Freddie’s shoulder. He leaned over the bed, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead; Freddie smiled peacefully. “How are you doing, princess?” He asked.

 

“Nothing hurts.” Coming from a man who had still felt pain through strong doses of codeine, those words relaxed Jim more than anything. “You were right, they fixed me.”

 

He could still remember those words. Maybe he’d been more conscious than Jim had thought.

 

“How much do you remember?” He asked, pressing a kiss to Freddie’s knuckles. Freddie lay as close to the edge of the bed as he could, wanting to stay close to him; he knew the truth even if the others didn’t want to believe it.

 

“All of it, I think.” He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “The punch, the glass bottle, the way he hit my head, the way he kicked my ribs, my lung going. I remember you coming in and knocking him the fuck out.” Maybe it was cruel, but the thought made him smile. “I remember you saying all those sweet things when we were waiting for the ambulance and the police to come.”

 

Jim traced the pad of his thumb over Freddie’s cheekbone; he instinctively arched into his touch. “I’m so proud of you.” Jim murmured softly. “It’s all going to be okay now. They charged him for assault and attempted murder.”

 

Freddie let out a long breath and nodded. “They got the camera footage?” He asked softly.

 

“I told them about it in my interview.” Jim said softly. “They charged him just based on your injuries.”

 

Freddie smiled. “Then how come you’re here?”

 

“Self-defence and defence of others.” Jim said softly. “They bailed me. They might still charge me with common assault, but it’s my word against his, and he isn’t exactly the paragon of virtue.” He rested his cheek against Freddie’s palm; Freddie smoothed the pad of his thumb over his eyebrow, and he laughed a little. “I’m sorry that I didn’t get there sooner, princess.”

 

Freddie arched an eyebrow playfully. “Technically, I told you not to come at all.” He pointed out. “So I’d be dead if you’d listened to me. I don’t think you have much to be sorry for, darling.”

 

“I was never going to listen to you.” He smiled a little. “I told you that I’d protect you. I-” His face fell and he sighed. “I couldn’t live with myself if something awful happened. When you were down, Fred, he went for your belt buckle, and I-” He swallowed hard and his voice came out thinner. “I just saw red. I couldn’t let you keep going through this, even though you wanted to sort it out amicably. He’s not that kind of man.”

 

Freddie propped himself on his elbow and reached up, kissing him long and slow and gentle. “I love you so much.” He said softly. Although he might not be shocked by it, he knew that it would be awful to watch from the outside.

 

“I love you too.” Jim smiled, a little wet around the edges of his eyes. “I love you so much, Fred.”

 

Freddie smiled. “You know-” His voice sounded terribly weak and unconvincing, even to himself, but he persisted. “This bed really is freezing cold.”

 

Jim glanced up and couldn’t help the smile. He toed off his shoes and his jacket quickly, climbing into the empty side that Freddie had left; he let Freddie move in closer, careful not to touch anywhere that might pain him. 

 

They settled the same way as they always did together, two magnetised puzzle pieces that slotted together perfectly every time. Freddie’s head on his chest, arm around his waist, top foot in between both of Jim’s. As he wrapped his arm around Jim’s waist, Jim caught a glimpse of jewels in the corner of his eye, and he smiled.

 

“It’s a good job we’ve got the ring.” He let his thumb trail over it, watching as heaviness started to weigh on Freddie’s eyes again. 

 

“Why’s that, darling?” He asked sleepily, tucking his nose into the dip of his collarbone in a way that usually drove him insane.

 

This morning, he couldn’t imagine anything better. His lover, dressed in his clothes a size too big for him, draped over him so close. “Roger told the doctors that I’m your fiance.”

 

Freddie laughed, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction as Jim tucked the blanket over the two of them. “You will be.” He promised sleepily.

 

They were free.


	47. Red Envelopes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets from the days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love a slightly odd filler scene. Second upload today - if you haven't read the last chapter, please read that first!

Jim had finally agreed to go home, even if it was only an hour, for a shower, a change of clothes and a moment’s respite from the hospital. Freddie entertained himself with sketching copies of photos from a book that Brian had brought him - _The History of Classical Ballet_ \- using paper and a pen that a nurse had brought him. Biro wasn’t his conventional medium, but he was happy with the shadowy contrasts that he was able to make as he sketched the most gorgeously backlit photos.

 

He wore his own sweater with one of Jim’s hoodies on top, buried in the mountain of fabric to keep himself warm. He couldn’t tell if the hospital was cold, or if his immune system was finally giving in in the one moment that he had the time to rest and get himself better.

 

He gripped the pen with cold fingers, sketching the long line of a leg in arabesque. He lay on his front, stomach supported by a pillow to take the weight off his chest.

 

It was so easy to convince everyone that he was okay, that he was relieved that Paul was gone and that he was ready to get on with the rest of his life. He naturally wanted to look after people, to make sure that nobody was worried about him; he knew how to say all the right things, make all the right gestures, how to smile so that it touched his eyes. He’d been practising all his life.

 

In truth, he couldn’t get those words from his mind. _The company whore._ It was so untrue, so grossly untrue, but he could see people’s logic for seeing him that way. Nineteen years old, pretty, suddenly rising through the ranks so quickly, past people that had trained for longer than him at more prestigious institutions.

 

Whenever those thoughts began to trickle through his mind, he started drawing on himself. It was a way to cope with them without having to tell anyone. It was a personal thing, for him, and he couldn’t even tell Jim about it yet.

 

He glanced down at where he’d been drawing: a large rose sat over his ankle, meticulously inked in black biro. Putting all his focus in the art, in the same way he usually did the dance, allowed him to take his mind off it all. He liked to be lost in beauty, to allow it to numb his mind for a little while.

 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tell Jim everything, and that scared him. He didn’t want to have secrets, but he couldn’t bear for him to know the truth.

 

“Freddie?”

 

He didn’t recognise the voice, and looked up instinctively; a woman in a black business suit, blonde hair in a ponytail. He caught sight of the red shoes she wore, and somehow relaxed a little: it made her feel like less of a robot.

 

She caught his glance and smiled. “Can I come in?”

 

Freddie nodded, ducking his head down. He wasn’t sure where his voice had gone, why he suddenly felt so shy; he went back to drawing on his ankle, now sat up amongst all the blankets.

 

“My name is Kate, Freddie. I’m one of the psychiatrists.”

 

A little wry smile on Freddie’s behalf; of course they’d assess him now.

 

He tilted his head up, smiled tiredly. He wasn’t about to be messed around for being uncooperative. “Nice to meet you.”

 

She smiled, having broken some form of barrier between them. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”

  


 

Jim bounced his knee nervously until John rested a hand against his shoulder. “He’ll be fine, don’t worry. These things are routine.” He said logically.

 

“I know.” Jim sighed. “I just don’t want them to upset him. We’ve gone a few steps back in terms of his recovery, and I don’t want them to make it worse by pushing him too far.”

 

“They’re professionals.” Roger’s voice was dry, but it was likely just the exhaustion. He’d barely left the waiting room over the last few days, despite restrictions never being lifted. “Why don’t you go and grab him some food? You know he bitches all the time about the food in here.”

  


 

Jim joined his hand with Freddie’s instinctively. “I’m confident that your mental health is completely sound, Freddie. I think those lost memories have been repressed, which is a perfectly natural thing for the body to do in response to trauma. Have you ever heard of that before?”

 

Freddie shook his head a little. “It’s like locking those memories away in the back of your mind. They might come up again one day, but for now they’re safely tucked away in a corner so that they won’t affect you in your everyday life. It’s a survival mechanism.”

  


 

“Mary left this at the flat.” Jim handed Freddie an envelope as he organised their little picnic. “Apparently it’s your pigeonhole mail from the Royal.”

 

Freddie opened the envelope with his little finger, tearing the seam carefully to not damage anything inside. He smiled at the sight: one card, and two little red envelopes. He opened the card first, a large get well soon card with little messages from each member of the company.

 

_Get well soon, my prince!_

 

The message was inked in flowing cursive and Freddie blushed a little. It was a long time that he’d been called that kind of name by anybody other than Jim.

 

The next envelope was a series of pictures cut from newspapers, photos of Freddie looking his best in performance, each with a little supportive message written on the back. His favourite was from Olga.

 

_The show of a lifetime! I’m still so proud. You’ll smash whatever comes next._

 

The final envelope was a small piece of paper, a tiny snippet that filled Freddie with complete joy.

 

_Congratulations! The artistic team at The Royal Ballet have promoted you to First Soloist. Conditional to your next performances, we reserve the right to reverse this and instead promote you to Principal._


	48. Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just a difficult night, is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you guys want idealism and happiness and fairies and rainbows and I promise that we will have happier chapters it's just that right now he's still got to recover okay thank you

Jim had gone to bed over four hours ago. Freddie stood in the kitchen, the only one awake at such a ridiculous hour of the morning; the kettle whistled on the stove. He was tired, he was cold, he was hungry, but he was held back by all those thoughts, those thoughts that had nearly disappeared before suddenly everything went into reverse.

 

The pen traced over the back of his hand and up, over his arm. He’d stopped drawing flowers when his eyes had grown blurry from the exhaustion, instead just favouring little patterns, mandala-esque designs on his skin.

 

He wasn’t doing well. Since leaving the hospital, he’d almost become two different people. He was the Freddie they all knew, all loved during the day: funny, energetic, creative, determined. At night, however, he rarely slept, rarely even went to bed before five or six in the morning. 

 

He’d told them it was a fasting season. They didn’t understand his faith, so they believed him. They were satisfied with his explanation of avoiding food, of innumerable cups of tea throughout the day, of ignoring whenever his stomach made a noise of protest.

 

It was ridiculous, really, to let himself fall apart like this on the back of a professional contract. It damaged his recovery from his injuries, damaged his strength that he’d spent so long building up for the show season. 

 

He couldn’t help it.

 

It had always been the same. It was an easy way to clean himself, and to finally feel clean. He couldn’t scrub away the hands on his hips, fingers tight in his hair, hasty money shoved into someone else’s hand as sure fingers popped the buttons on his jeans. He could clean his body from the inside out, but it required determination and stomach cramps and sickness.

 

He carefully poured himself another tea; not the strongest stimulant, but strong enough for three in the morning. He quietly padded out onto the balcony, dressed in one of Jim’s shirts. The goosebumps rose on his arms as soon as they hit the freezing temperatures of the mid-December night and he cradled his mug closer.

 

He blew on top of it, trying to drive away some of the steam. He sat cross-legged on the floor, the cold of the concrete biting into his skin, and bowed his head down slowly. He was tired, so tired, but he didn’t feel as though he deserved the warm bed and the affection from the other man. 

 

Self-doubt plagued him again, and he sighed. Maybe he’d get a couple of hours on the sofa instead.

 

He took a long swallow of the tea, it scorching the back of his throat on the way down. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just be happy. Surely, now that he’d gotten everything his own way, the charges upheld, a loving and supportive pseudo-family who wanted him better, he had no excuse to not be happy. 

 

His stomach cramped again, and he groaned, curling in on himself. All his life his shitty, self-destructive behaviours had been encouraged, and now he was having to hide them.

 

He couldn’t tell anyone, now. Not Brian: Brian couldn’t even know everything that had happened before. If he’d known how Freddie had afforded that money for their first demo, he wouldn’t ever trust him again. Brian couldn’t know, because he had a tendency to fly off the handle if he didn’t like things, and Freddie couldn’t take emotional rejection right now.

 

He couldn’t tell John. John was like his brother, only a few months older than him but feeling so much younger. Freddie felt like he had a duty to protect the innocence that he’d managed to maintain so far.

 

Not Kash. Kash was his younger sister, for fuck’s sake, and she’d already had to go through enough information about beatings and injuries and other things that doctors should never have to tell an eighteen-year-old girl. 

 

Not Jim. Jim knew half the story, but not the whole thing: he knew the lesser of two evils. He didn’t know about the money. He didn’t understand what would lead Freddie to do what he did. He wouldn’t understand the reasons for going hungry unnecessarily. He wouldn’t understand the obsession with cleanliness.

 

Roger. It would always depend on what mood Roger was in. Roger had seen enough of the world for it not to completely corrupt him, but he was liable to be incredibly angry with Freddie, and Freddie couldn’t take that. Roger wouldn’t touch the demo if he knew the truth. That had to stay a secret.

 

The familiar heat of tears tore through the back of his throat and he screwed his eyes shut. _He_ hated self-pity more than anything in the whole world.

 

_ But who is he? Is he me, or is he the remnants of Paul? _

 

He buried his face in his sleeve as he cried. If he couldn’t stop it, the next best thing was to hide it. He tucked his knees up against his chest and let himself cry, finally, let his sobs be washed away by the harshness of the wind whistling in his ears. He wanted to be somewhere that nobody could hear him, nobody could see him, nobody could interrupt him.

 

“Freddie?”

 

He cursed internally; once he’d let down his barriers, it was hard to put them back up so quickly. He tried his best, pinching his nose harshly and taking a few breaths before he responded. At least it was too dark to see him. “Yes, darling, it’s me, don’t worry.” He called back.

 

“Christ, Fred, it’s freezing.” Roger. He came out onto the balcony, wrapped up in his dressing gown - or maybe it was Brian’s, Freddie couldn’t tell in the low light. “Why are you out here?”

 

Freddie was impressed that his voice hadn’t given him away. “Needed some fresh air, my dear. I’m starting to go a little stir-crazy, just being at home all day while everyone goes out and lives their lives.”

 

Roger sat beside him, noticed how little he was wearing. “You’ll freeze to death.” He murmured, pulling off his dressing gown and wrapping it around Freddie. He started to protest, but Roger shook his head and cut him off immediately. “At least I’ve got pajamas on. You’ve only got that shirt.”

 

Freddie still clutched the pen tightly in his hand; he started to draw little dots on his toes.

 

He almost wanted to cry again at how nice Roger was being to him. He was locked in that thought process again, of  _ I don’t deserve this _ . A tear slipped down his cheek and he wiped it away hastily. 

 

“Are you okay, Freddie?” Roger asked quietly, carefully bringing the young man into a hug. “Come on, talk to me. Tell me what’s happening.”

 

He’d tell him too much if he started on specifics. He’d tell too much, and then everyone would know everything, and Jim wouldn’t want him and neither would the boys when they found out where that wad of cash had come from.

 

_ “We just need a few more days, darling, and then it’ll be perfect!” _

 

_ “We don’t have a few more days, Fred. Today’s the end of our money.” _

 

_ The wallet came out the pocket of Freddie’s jacket. He handed over the money with a proud smile on his face. _

 

_ “Where’s this from?” Brian thumbed through the notes. _

 

_ “Don’t you worry about that, darling. We’ve got an album to record.” _

 

He'd been so proud at the time, but now the memory haunted him.

 

“It’s just not a good night, darling.” Freddie’s voice was tired. “It’s the nature of the beast. Some nights are easy, and some nights are hard.”

 

Roger let him go gently. “What would make it better?”

 

“Nothing can.” Freddie sounded so fatalistic, so dramatic, that he almost made himself smile. “I just have to sit it out.”

 

“Shall I get Jim?” Roger suggested. Freddie thought of his lover, fast asleep in their bed, enjoying the space to himself when Freddie wasn’t there to annoy him with elbows and knees and shoulders and cold noses.

 

“No.” Freddie said quickly. He didn’t want to mess it up now, not when it was so close to perfect with him. He didn’t want to suddenly become a burden again. “No, darling, let him sleep. He’s had a rough couple of days.”

 

“So have you.” Roger pointed out. “Freddie, he loves you. He’ll want to know if you’re feeling sad.”

 

When Freddie stood up, the world faded from his eyes for a few seconds before appearing in a vignette. At least he knew the cause this time.

 

“Go to sleep, my dear.” Freddie went for the door of the balcony. “I promise, I’ll be in bed in no time.”


	49. Pointe Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was willing to be helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't keep uploading twice a day but I also can't stop writing please send help. The italics are pretty obvious in this one!

The bedroom door closed quietly behind Roger. He rested a hand on Jim’s shoulder and shook him ever-so-slightly, enough to wake him up without making unnecessary noise. He didn’t believe Freddie for two seconds about his intentions to go to bed on his own. Something was wrong, and there was one person in the world that Freddie would talk to, even when he was reluctant. Jim sat up, going to speak, but Roger rested a finger over his lips in a gesture of silence.

 

“It’s Freddie.” His voice was barely a whisper. He saw the colour on Jim’s face pale a little. “Nothing bad has happened, don’t worry. He’s just not doing well at the moment, and-” He bit his lip nervously. “Well, I just thought you’d want to know.”

 

Jim nodded immediately, grabbing a sweater from the floor. “I’ll go and talk to him.” He smiled at Roger. “Thank you.”

  
  


Freddie drank quickly from his glass, the cold of the water making him shiver. He was regretting his promise to Roger, regretting having to keep another secret from someone, regretting letting someone see him like that in the middle of the night. 

 

He leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, palms pressed firmly into the cold stone, and closed his eyes momentarily. It was feeling like this that had driven him back to Paul last time, back to the painkillers and the drugs and the casual sex that worked well to distract him.

 

Strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and why was he tensing up? Suddenly, he couldn’t seem to let himself relax, his adrenaline spiking as soon as anyone came near him. The rational side of his brain reminded him that this was Jim, the man that wouldn’t hurt him, the man that wanted him to feel better; the irrational side told him to run.

 

Maybe he was afraid of perfection. To him, this relationship was the most perfect thing he’d ever experienced, and that made him so afraid to lose it, to lose him. So afraid that he put up the walls when they should’ve been down, always anticipating the moment that it would all go wrong. 

 

He didn’t even realise he was crying until Jim was pulling him close, holding him so tightly and yet cradling him so carefully. It was a combination of factors: the sadness, the panic, the fright, all the memories that haunted him as soon as the lights were turned out. 

 

He let himself be held.

 

He cried himself hoarse, stood there in the kitchen, clutching on tight to Jim. The one man that he felt safe with, that he knew wouldn’t be angry with him for his tears. He crammed his hand over his mouth and nose, instinctively trying to quieten himself despite knowing he was safe. 

 

It pained Jim to see. He’d been taught for so long that tears were a dangerous sign of weakness, so long that he couldn’t possibly think to do anything other than try to hide it.

 

Eventually, he just rested his hot cheek against Jim’s shoulder, trying to breathe steadily. Jim’s fingers wiped his eyes carefully, tracing over the skin so gently. 

 

Freddie slowly uncurled his fists and swallowed heavily. His throat was sore from his sobs. 

 

“Did anything happen?” Jim asked softly, running his fingers slowly and methodically through Freddie’s hair. He liked predictable affection when he was feeling vulnerable like this, things that he could trust not to change; circles on his waist, rubbing his back, fingers combing his hair. 

 

He shook his head, sniffed a little. “It’s just ASR.” He said quietly. “It’s just bad at the moment.”

 

Jim wondered to himself how many nights it had been since Freddie had actually gotten a full night’s sleep. He wondered how long it had been since he’d had the energy to eat, to wash himself, to do anything other than drink tea and stare out the window. He silently berated himself for not recognising it quicker, for not recognising that his lover was in pain. 

 

“What stage?” He asked softly. He swayed back and forth a little, letting them both move together in a soft and fluid way. 

 

“Flashbacks.” Jim pressed a kiss to Freddie’s forehead. “Nightmares. Memories.” Freddie let out a long sigh. “I’m not helping myself.”

 

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” Jim crouched ever-so-slightly, and Freddie knew immediately that he was picking him up; he wrapped his arms around Jim’s neck, tucked himself in closer.

 

Jim counted it as a success when that happened. Freddie wanted to be helped. 

 

“I haven’t been eating.” He admitted, small voice filled with shame. “Everyone says that fasting is supposed to make you feel clean, but I just feel tired and sad.”

 

Jim carefully made his way towards the kitchen door; Freddie tucked his head under Jim’s chin. “I thought it was fasting season?” 

 

“No such thing.” Freddie said quietly. “I was brought up Zoroastrian, not Muslim. They’re different. I just knew you wouldn’t know the differences.”

 

Jim climbed the steps up to their bedroom. “Thank you for telling me, sweetheart.” He said softly. “I told you a long time ago, Mr. Mercury, that we’d both take good care of you. That doesn’t stop now that Paul’s out of the picture.”

 

In hindsight, that was the first smile he’d seen on Freddie’s face in days. He sat him down on the bed and smiled when Freddie crawled into the warm patch where he’d been asleep before. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d been on Freddie’s side of the bed. 

 

“Do you want a light on?” Jim asked, fingers hovering over the switch for the fairy lights that they fixed there for just that reason.

 

“Please.” He murmured, immediately cuddling up to him when he climbed into bed. The thoughts in his mind persisted,  _ I don’t deserve the way he treats me,  _ but Freddie tried his best to ignore them when Jim pulled him closer.

 

“Time your breaths to mine, sweetheart. It’ll make it easier to fall asleep.”

 

Freddie did as he was told, long breaths in and out, a rhythm so steady in comparison to his usual unsteadiness. He closed his eyes as fingers started to draw on the small of his back. He had to try, for Jim.

  
  


Freddie was sleeping soundly when Jim’s alarm went off; he reached over to silence it quickly, hoping that it wouldn’t wake him. He was supposed to be working early that morning, but looking at Freddie now, he didn’t have the heart to go. He couldn’t leave the person that needed him more than anything in the whole world.

 

Freddie was shivering under the covers, and Jim tugged another blanket quickly over the both of them, wrapping Freddie up before then cuddling tight to him, easily warmth back into the coldness of his bones. He glanced over at their calendar quickly; the seventeenth of December. He smiled to himself: their first Christmas together, and then his birthday just after New Year’s Day.

 

He had the most beautifully impractical gift for Freddie. Tied away in a box under the bed, wrapped in a muslin cloth bag and finished with a pink silk bow. It was only a little thing, but it was better than he could’ve ever imagined it would be. 

 

Jim rested his chin on top of Freddie’s head as he closed his eyes again. Sometimes he couldn’t believe that he, a hairdresser, had a Royal first soloist for a lover. It was so impossibly romantic, like something from a children’s fairy-story. In some ways, their relationship had been like that: the strong man rescues the princess from the dragon in her tower, takes her away and marries her.

 

And they all lived happily ever after.

 

Sometimes he’d allow himself to think about a future with Freddie in it. Hard times, times like this, were infinitely more manageable when they were both aiming for a future together. By his nature, Jim never let himself think too far ahead. He didn’t want the fantasy to be torn away from him if things went wrong; he wanted to protect himself a little from disappointment and heartache.

 

Freddie let out a long, slow breath against his chest, and he smiled. Very occasionally, he would allow himself to think further.

 

He was surer than anything that he was going to get Freddie a cat. Whether they were lovers, or just friends, Freddie could do with a little fluffy friend. The nurse had mentioned the benefits of pets, and Jim had been drawn to it immediately. He knew just the one that he’d choose, too, the bundle of black fur that had meowed in excitement when he’d taken a look through the window of the shelter. Freddie would love it.

 

When he thought months ahead, he thought of their first home together. He thought of the conversation he’d have with Freddie -  _ I know you need to prepare the shoes, sweetheart, but if you keep smacking them against the walls then we’ll lose our deposit on this place.  _ He thought of a dining room big enough for Freddie to practice, bringing the Bechstein with him and letting Jim play it. The house, dinner in the oven, fingers on piano keys, Freddie laying out on top of the piano in pointe shoes, his toes dangling over the edge so delicately. The garden, filled with yellow freesias and roses and lilies and orchids that smelled like paradise. Freddie, pressing hasty kisses to his lips because he’d overslept again, not remembering that the walk to the station was longer than it once was. 

 

When he thought months ahead, he thought of proposing. He thought of a thousand ways it could be done, in bed or on the sofa or in the Ritz or backstage at a performance. He’d always liked the idea of asking him just before a performance, seeing that radiant smile onstage as he danced and the flash of a diamond engagement ring sat next to his ruby.

 

When he thought a year ahead, he thought of what their wedding might be like. A little ceremony, the Kensington and Chelsea Registry Office, matching bands of gold around their fingers to proclaim their connection, their dedication, their love. A reception in a park, a picnic with friends and champagne and cocktails straight from the bottle and drunken kisses under trees. He thought about how it might be different to kiss him as a married man, how the three twists of gold around his finger would look so good together.

 

_ “Darling!” Freddie’s gorgeous laugh. He’s sprawled out, half-naked on top of the piano, slender and toned with unblemished skin. He’s still got his ballet slippers on, those leg warmers that look so ridiculous, bright stripes hugging his calves.  _

 

_ “You know I like the memories.” Jim’s voice so easy in reply, the click of a Polaroid camera beneath his fingers, capturing Freddie in that pose forever. One arm bent at the elbow, propping up his head, one foot flat against the piano top and the other hanging down. He’s a little sweaty, out of breath from his practice. _

 

_ “You’ll make a fool of me one day.” Freddie sounds sceptical, but he narrows his eyes in a playful manner that reassures Jim. He props himself up on both elbows now, watching as Jim walks closer; Freddie looks as though he wants to ravish him there and then. _

 

_ Jim picks up his left hand, pressing slow kisses from his wrist to his wedding ring. “I’ve managed not to so far, darling.” _

 

_ Freddie loops an arm around his neck, pulls him into his lips. Jim laughs, a hand on his stomach as he leans forward to kiss him. He can feel those powerful muscles beneath his touch, ready to act at a second’s notice, and he can feel the way they move with Freddie’s breath. He’d never been stronger, never been healthier, never been happier than he was now. _

 

_ “I’m so proud of you, my little principal.” He murmured against Freddie’s lips. _

 

Maybe he was being overzealous in his estimates of Freddie’s time to heal. 

 

Freddie’s lips ghosted over the inside of his neck as he pushed himself closer, as though there was any distance left between them. Jim smiled sleepily, giving in to his dream.

 

They'd been through the storm, through both sides and the eye itself, and now the waters were beginning to calm.


	50. Knurling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's fun to be silly, just to hear his laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a sport I can write with some level of confidence (having been a powerlifter for two years). Also, apparently an ice cream oyster is an English thing? Look them up, kids, they're incredible and so extra and definitely what Freddie would order.

The warmth from his dream persisted into real life. The hazy summer sunshine was replaced by an extra blanket, a body curled around him to keep him warm and safe and happy. He smiled, pressed a lazy kiss to Jim’s collarbone.

 

_Freddie lay out on the grass, the warmth of the earth running through his body. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, closing slightly as he stretched, lazy and happy and enjoying the sunshine._

 

_Jim walked over, ice cream running down one of his wrists from where he was trying to shield Freddie’s oyster from melting. Freddie laughed, propped himself up on one elbow, took the mess of sweetness from his hand. He pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, darling.” He said, voice as sweet as the ice cream on his lips._

 

_“We couldn’t miss a day like this when it’s so beautiful.” Jim sat beside Freddie, pulled him in and pressed a kiss to his lips. “I’m barely going to see you for the next few weeks, I want to make the most of you.” He said playfully._

 

_“Oh, darling.” Freddie laughed, trying to stop raspberry sauce from dripping down his chin. “You know I can’t help it that I’m just so successful. It’s not my fault that it’s eight performances a week for the next three weeks.”_

 

_Jim grinned, taking a bite from Freddie’s ice cream. “I’m not sure how I feel about chocolate and raspberry at the same time.” He mused, loving hearing Freddie’s laugh in response. “I think I’m playing for a fair few performances, so I’ll get to love and admire you from afar.”_

 

_“You went for a mixed sherbet, you have no room to be superior.” Freddie stole some from the blue side, smirking to himself. “I can’t fathom why you’d choose half strawberry when you could have the whole thing raspberry.”_

 

_“I’m eccentric, my dear.” Jim deliberately put on Freddie’s voice; Freddie elbowed him and laughed._

 

_“I hate you.” He stuck his lower lip out in a pout, and Jim couldn’t stop himself from leaning in to kiss him, the taste of ice cream still on both of their lips._

 

_“That’s a lie.” Jim said against his lips, pulling him closer in; Freddie reached up to cup his cheek as they kissed lazily._

 

_“Says who?” Freddie taunted in response, pulling back a little to dot ice cream on the end of Jim’s nose._

 

_“You’re a liar, Freddie Mercury, and it’s a good job I love you.” Jim pushed him back down onto the grass and Freddie squealed, dragging Jim down too._

 

The whole world seemed a little calmer that morning. It was incredible, the power of a good night’s sleep in the arms of somebody that you love.

 

The painkillers had worn off, but the pain was minimal that morning. His chest was a little sore, now ten days post-surgery, but there was no persistent, nagging pain that he’d become so accustomed to.

 

He dragged the back of his hand over his eyes and noted the sunshine in the room. By mid-December, he always woke up in darkness, beating the sun to its morning rise. He glanced at the clock opposite the bed, and sat up quickly - just past ten in the morning.

 

“Darling!” Freddie’s voice was hushed as he carefully shook Jim’s shoulder. “Darling, wake up! You’re late to work!” He murmured, smiling a little at the sleepy crinkles around Jim’s eyes. The night before felt a world away from them now; Freddie was clearer-headed, happier that morning.

 

Jim wrapped an arm around him lazily and pulled him closer, never once opening his eyes, finding Freddie’s giggle just so irresistible. “Not at work today, honey.” He murmured, voice thick with sleep as he ran his fingers over Freddie’s torso gently. He cracked an eye open slowly, glancing at Freddie’s smile and returning it tenfold. “How are you doing this morning?”

 

“Sleep has done me the world of good.” Freddie settled back against his chest, almost purring when Jim wrapped both arms around him, pulling him completely on top of him. “I had a nice dream, too. That’s a rarity.”

 

“What was it about?” Jim asked, tucking Freddie’s hair behind his ear before dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

 

“You bought us ice cream in Hyde Park.” Freddie’s satisfied smile made Jim feel warm inside. “You bought me my favourite and then you teased me because you thought it was weird. I thought yours was weirder.”

 

Jim laughed as he rubbed his eyes awake. He often encouraged Freddie to talk about happy things too; he liked to solidify the memories and thoughts in his head. “What did I have?”

 

“A double sherbet cone.” Freddie screwed his nose up in distaste. “I don’t understand why anyone would eat strawberry sherbet.”

 

“How did you know my favourite?” Jim asked sleepily, propping his head up on the pillow so that he could be nose to nose with Freddie. “God, you’re so fucking pretty.”

 

Freddie’s blush was demure and absolutely _beautiful_ and Jim had never been so in love in his whole life. “I’m not sure.” Freddie said shyly. “Just a lucky guess, I think.” His eyes darted away and he bit at his lower lip to hide his smile. “And thank you, darling.”

 

He was learning to accept compliments a little at a time, but it felt good to claim those words for himself.

 

_Useless. Worthless. Used up. Spent. Unwanted. Unloved. Straggler. Whore._

 

_No._

 

_Beautiful. Talented. Loving. Generous. Kind. Wanted. Loved._

 

Freddie lay down completely and hugged Jim tightly, his face buried in Jim’s shoulder.

 

Jim wrapped his arms around Freddie again, kissing his temple gently. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s the matter?” He asked gently.

 

“Nothing.” Freddie murmured and fuck, wasn’t that liberating? Nothing was wrong, at that specific moment in time; nothing hurt, nothing frightened him, nothing worried him. “Nothing, darling, nothing at all. I love you.”

 

Jim smiled, resting his cheek against the pillow to try and catch a glimpse of his face. “Don’t hide your beautiful face, darling.” He said softly. “I love you too.”

 

Freddie reminded Jim of all kinds of wonderful things, pink roses and fuzzy peaches and the tangle of the silk sheets that he insisted on sleeping between because they felt good against his skin. His skin was the same colour as those peaches now, rosy around the edges. “You’re replacing his voice.” Freddie’s voice was barely a whisper, and Jim didn’t catch all the words.

 

“Hm?” He asked softly, carefully tilting Freddie’s face upwards. “What did you say, sweetheart?”

 

He dared to be louder. “You’re replacing his voice, in my head.” He told Jim; he moved a little so that he was lying next to him now, noses practically touching. “I started hearing those things that he called me, but then I heard you, and you were louder.”

 

Those words lit Jim up like those fairy lights on the wall opposite them. “That’s because I’m telling the truth, sweetheart, and you’re healing.” Those words sounded like a promise to Freddie. “You’re starting to see that I’m right. You’re starting to understand just how precious you are.”

 

 _Precious._ Freddie added that one to the word bank in his mind. Precious, like a diamond. Precious, like a ruby, or an old family heirloom, or a tiny newborn baby. Precious, invaluable, rare, irreplaceable. Precious, unspoiled, clean, innocent.

 

He liked being precious.

 

Jim sat up a little, grabbing his water from the bedside table and drinking quickly. “What’re your plans for today, princess?” He asked softly.

 

Freddie gazed up at him from his spot between the covers, head still resting on Jim’s pillow. “I’ve finally finished my complete rest period.” His lips spoke rationally, but his mind buzzed with love and adoration for Jim. “And I start ballet again in three days, so I thought I’d go to the gym today. The doctor said that I can do as much as my lung can take once I’m out of my rest period.”

 

Jim smiled and stood up carefully. “You want some company?” He offered. “I need to do some training for the match on Saturday. I was planning to go myself.”

 

Freddie furrowed his brow playfully. “You have to not laugh at me. I’m nowhere near as strong as you are.”

 

“I would never laugh at you.” Jim’s voice was so comforting. “Besides, your endurance must be much better than mine. I have to jog for just over an hour, whereas you have to jump around for three hours straight.”

 

Freddie considered it for a second before standing up and nodding. “I think I’m probably just going to run, do some stretching and a little bit of work on my back and shoulders.”

 

“I’m doing legs, I think. I keep fucking up in the scrum.” Jim smiled as Freddie hugged him from behind, resting his forehead against Jim’s back. “Sweetheart?” He asked, a soft laugh on his lips as Freddie traced a heart on his side.

 

“Love you.” He said sweetly, planting a kiss on the side of his neck before parting from him and heading for the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

_“Darling?” Jim’s voice was light, playful, as he watched Freddie, watched the systemic tension and relaxation of his muscles as he trained them. “Could you come here for a moment?”_

 

_Freddie walked over, a look of curious excitement on his face. Jim could see the difference that a little movement made to his day: he was happier immediately, grounded in the place where he was happiest. “What is it, my love?” Freddie asked, standing just in front of Jim._

 

_He squealed when Jim picked him up, settling him on his shoulders. “How much do you weigh?” Jim questioned, hands tight around Freddie’s ankles as Freddie looped his arms around Jim’s neck, laughing until his stomach hurt._

 

_“About a hundred and fifty pounds, there or thereabouts.” Freddie’s smile was contagious; it was worth being silly just to see. “You can’t be serious.”_

 

_“Oh, I can.” Jim squatted with Freddie on his shoulders, listening to his squeak of surprise. “I can’t find the right plates. This is far quicker, you know.”_

 

_Freddie tipped his head back, laughing as he clung onto Jim._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want everyone to know that I could squat this Freddie and that amuses me endlessly. I designed a moodboard for Fluorescent Fred, which I'm considering attaching to the top of the next chapter - is anyone at all interested in visuals?


	51. Charcoal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet afternoon in a Covent coffee shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You voted moodboard, so here's the moodboard! They're silly little things that I love creating so much. Also, the girl here is significant - I promise this isn't just a filler chapter again!
> 
> KIDS YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO PUT PICTURES ON AO3 I THINK IT NEARLY KILLED ME

 

 

The corner of the cafe was warm and filled with happy memories. Freddie sat cross-legged, a stick of charcoal in one hand, carefully blending out the shadows in the last piece for his portfolio. Although it was unnecessary now, having gained his professional contract, he still wanted to complete this project for the school, for the art and graphics programme that he’d embarked on.

 

_Ballet and negative space._

 

It was a stereotypical topic, he knew, a ballet dancer choosing to draw photos of others like himself, but it was an important step in his self-acceptance. Drawing the beauty of others brought him closer to accepting his own in a way that good reviews and rewatching footage could never do.

 

This last picture was bigger than the others; the others had been pages from a small sketchbook, hasty line drawings and biro pictures and even a smudge of watercolour of a ballet dancer mid-motion. This last picture was large, the size of the table in the booth where he sat. It was different to the others, focusing not on movement and beauty onstage, but the beauty of backstage.

 

The photo had been taken backstage, before his third performance of The Prince; Freddie was laughing, tying the ribbons around his ankle. His hair fell in soft waves around his face, and there was a tiny tear in his tights on his left thigh that nobody had noticed. He’d seen Jim take the photo, a quick Polaroid; he liked to capture happy memories. He stuck them on the wall of their lounge back at his house, intending to build a whole room of them eventually.

 

Freddie had fallen in love with the photo. It represented to him what he wanted to be, and it made him realise that maybe he was closer than he’d ever anticipated.

 

It took all his self-control to stay true to the photo, to not throw his proportions out to the ones he saw in the mirror, to not draw the line of his nose crooked in the way it looked at a certain angle, to not draw his lips closed to hide his teeth. He wanted to be true to it, true to himself, true to Jim.

 

He smudged in the line of his bicep, the slight shadow around the fullness of the muscle, and smiled to himself.

 

The music playing was peaceful, soft piano that soothed his mind. It was the mid-afternoon slumber, caught between the lunchtime rush and the desperate after-work pick-me-up. Freddie glanced up at the table over from him, the one where Jim had kissed whipped cream from his lips, and smiled despite himself.

 

It felt good to be able to enjoy time to himself now, to not have to worry so much about fainting or panicking and making a scene in front of others. It felt good to get away from the house for a little while, even while he couldn’t dance. It was relieving to spend some time away from constant attention and noise and chaos and people; while he loved a busy house, he also loved the quiet.

 

He knelt in the padded seat to lean over the drawing, careful not to smudge it with his sleeve. After so many hasty drawings, it was comforting to put time and energy and dedication into one big piece: he loved to draw big and bold, to command the attention of the room in artfully applied pencil and charcoal.

 

He enjoyed being in his own little world. He didn’t feel the need to check every time the door went anymore, finally feeling safe in his own little patch of Covent Garden. Covent had always been safer than Kensington, the theatres towering around him, tiled and signposted so beautifully. It was like living in a postcard, or living in a documentary. It was so exhilarating to work in a place of art and beauty, a place of theatre and visual noise and riots of sound.

 

He glanced up quickly as someone sat opposite him, immediately worrying that their coffee was about to spill over his drawing. “Hey, gorgeous, can I get your name?”

 

And Freddie couldn’t help his laugh; he couldn’t help it when Jim was so silly, surprising him in little ways just to brighten his day. “I don’t have one.” He grinned down at his drawing, going back to sketching his arm. He loved playing these games.

 

“Don’t have a name?” Jim’s pout was adorable, and Freddie wanted to kiss him, but that would involve letting him win. “How about a number, then?”

 

Freddie raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly; that line was terrible, and Jim knew it. “Not going to happen, darling.”

 

The hand over his was warm, making sure that he didn’t affect his drawing. “Zodiac sign? Occupation? Anything, gorgeous, you have to give me something.” He leaned closer, lips nearly touching Freddie’s ear.

 

His head snapped up again when he heard another voice directed at him, this one feminine and unfamiliar. “I’m back, are you ready to go?” She asked sweetly, and Freddie was dumbfounded for a second before it clicked. She was trying to protect him.

 

A blush rose on Freddie’s cheeks as Jim laughed; he smiled shyly. “I’m so sorry.” He started giggling himself, unable to stop himself. “You think he’s a creep, right? That he’s bothering me?”

 

The girl nodded, and Freddie had never been more apologetic in his whole life. “I’m so sorry.” Jim let his fingers intertwine with Freddie’s and gave them a quick squeeze. “He’s my boyfriend, we’re just being silly, but thank you so much.” He spoke so sweetly, and Jim could see immediately why people loved him after meeting him just once.

 

The girl started laughing when he explained. “I’m sorry!” She echoed, covering her mouth quickly. “I thought he was harassing you, oh God!”

 

“In your defence, I completely was.” Jim chuckled, and Freddie glanced across at him with an expression of pure adoration. “Don’t apologise. It’s nice to know that other people have his back, too.”

 

The girl chuckled a little, ran a hand through her hair. “You’re Freddie Mercury, from the Royal, right?” She smiled. “I came and saw you when you were performing The Prince.”

 

“That’s me.” Jim adored the patches of blush on his cheeks, the gorgeous pink of his pleasure and surprise. Had they been alone, he would’ve kissed those pink cheeks to feel their warmth, then kissed those lips; Freddie liked to take over then, to kiss down Jim’s neck. It was their unspoken rhythm together.

 

“Could I-” She looked so nervous; Freddie put down his pencil, turned to her to show his full attention. In some ways, she reminded him of Kash: he felt the immediate desire to help her. “Could I possibly talk to you at some point? About ballet?”

 

Freddie smiled widely. To be considered some kind of expert was a true privilege. “Of course.” He paused momentarily. “About anything in particular?”

 

“I’m about to finish at the English National Ballet School.” She leaned against the wall beside them. “And I’d like to move to the Royal for my professional contract. I’m having some problems with one of the teachers.” She offered by way of explanation. “But I have no idea about the Royal, their auditions, what it’s like, whether it’ll be the same. I know you moved up not too long ago, so I thought you might be able to tell me what it’s like.”

 

“I have a gap from three until four most days, if that works for you?” Freddie offered immediately. He wanted to help her.

 

“It works on Wednesday.” She looked overjoyed to have his help; he couldn’t believe how highly she seemed to value him in her esteem. Maybe he was more important than he gave himself credit for.

 

“Next Wednesday, three o’clock. We’ll meet here and have a coffee.” Freddie smiled. “I don’t promise not to be a little late. Classes have a tendency to overrun.”

 

The girl threw her arms around his neck, hugging him close. There was more to this than met the eye, Freddie was sure immediately. There was something underlying here, and he needed to help.

 

He became aware of Jim’s thumb running back and forth over his knuckles once she’d left. “Look at you, the professional.” He teased gently, but Freddie could see his pride.

 

“If there’s one place I’ll be noticed, it’s in the cafe across the road.” Freddie pointed out; Jim laughed and leaned across to kiss him.

 

Freddie cupped his right cheek, the ring on his finger pressing lightly into Jim’s skin. Jim smiled against his lips, holding him as close as he could over the wood of the table. “You know, when I saw you in the window of this cafe, I realised something.”

 

“Oh?” Freddie asked curiously, returning to his sketch. “What was that, darling?”

 

“I’ve never taken you on a proper date. I think I might need to remedy that as soon as possible.” By the look on Freddie’s face, it was definitely the best thing he could’ve said.

 

“Where?” Freddie asked excitedly, dropping his pencil quickly. “Will I need a suit? How fancy?”

 

“I think I’ll take you out for dinner. Very fancy. You’ll definitely need a suit, I’m not taking you in tights.” He grinned as Freddie kissed him again, more passionate than before. “Saturday night. I knew you didn’t have a performance, and I saw an amazing seafood restaurant when I was out in Soho, so I booked it for us.”

 

Freddie was so unbelievably excited; Jim hadn’t expected it to bring him quite so much joy, until suddenly it all made sense. “I’ve never been on a date before.” He bit his lip, trying to conceal his grin. “I’m glad you’re my first.”

 

“It’ll be so much fun.” Jim promised. “Seafood is okay, right? No restrictions?” He checked quickly.

 

Freddie couldn’t believe how thoughtful this man was, considering a faith that Freddie had a tumultuous relationship with. “No restrictions on seafood. I’m not supposed to eat beef or mutton, but I’m not very strict.” He admitted.

 

At one time, that would’ve sounded apologetic and guilty. Now it sounded honest and genuine, as though it was a part of himself that Freddie had accepted.

 

Jim held onto his hand as they talked idly about first the restaurant, then their respective days, then the drawing that Freddie had returned his attention to. After a while, Freddie glanced at him, smiling curiously. “Darling, how did you know it was me in here?”

 

“You’re sat in a window wearing harlequin tights, sweetheart. You’re not difficult to spot.” Jim laughed and Freddie chastised him with a click of the tongue, finally breaking into his own laughter when Jim’s lips found his cheek.


	52. Cut-Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected new face.

Jim wrapped a scarf around Freddie’s neck; if he would refuse to wear a jacket, then there had to be other ways to keep him warm instead. “Darling, I’ll be fine!” Freddie insisted with a childlike petulance.

 

“I don’t want you getting cold when you’re still recovering.” Jim said softly. “The last thing you need is a chest infection.” He leaned in, pressing his lips gently to Freddie’s. “Remember, don’t push yourself too hard. Call me if you need me.”

 

Freddie smiled; Jim was outdoing him on being the mother-hen today. “It’s not the first time I’ve danced while recovering.” He said softly. “I’ll be fine, don’t you worry about me. I love you.” Freddie wrapped his arms around Jim’s neck, pulling him in for one more kiss.

 

“Don’t break yourself.” Jim repeated the sentiment, nose pressed to Freddie’s. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  


Freddie jogged the stairs to the Opera House, being greeted by an excited Olga as soon as he walked into the Clore Studio. “Freddie!” She hugged him, and he hugged back, an excited smile plastered to his face. “Oh, it’s good to have you back!”

 

“It’s good to be back, darling.” Freddie said happily. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to keep your flexibility when you’re barely allowed to move for two weeks.” He grinned and she hugged him quickly again.

 

She laughed and pulled back quickly. “You’re in the studio upstairs, today. I’m taking the class for those considering auditioning today. You’ve got a new guest teacher.”

 

“Thanks for the heads-up.” Freddie chuckled, grabbing his bag from the floor.

 

“No problem. You better head up there now, else you’ll be late.” She smiled and he waved quickly before heading to the other studio.

 

The room was alive with bright outfits and small tunes from the piano and the incessant chatter of dancers as they waited for the day to begin. Freddie found his spot next to Mary, on the left hand side of the room today instead of their usual spot in the centre. He was about to launch into conversation - he needed her help in choosing a suit for his date - when he was cut off by a familiar voice.

 

“Mr. Mercury, so glad you finally found the time in your busy schedule to join us.”

 

Freddie’s heart dropped as he turned quickly, staring at Paul.

 

“I trust that your recovery from your surgery went well?”

 

His head spun, and suddenly he wanted to be sick or to punch him or faint or possibly leave the company and never come back. He was supposed to be safe, he was supposed to be locked away in some fucking jail cell where he couldn’t go anywhere near Freddie-

 

His fingers found a glass on the side next to him without even realising, and he launched it at Paul. He watched as it flew through the air, the cut-glass design catching the morning light. The room went silent as the glass shattered in his face, exploding into a thousand shards of the sharpest glass.

 

Freddie was shaking, worse than he ever had before. He’d been bailed. While they collected evidence, they’d fucking bailed him, bailed the man that had made his life hell for months.

 

The blood dripped down his cheek and Freddie watched it with a sort of morbid fascination. He’d never fought back like that before, never dared to try and play him at his own game. Now, though, with an audience, Paul was restrained. He couldn’t do whatever he liked.

 

He smiled, and Freddie could see that face leering over him in the middle of the night; as he walked closer, he refused to take even a step backwards. He refused to lose this fight, again. He was faintly aware of all the eyes on him from around the room, of Mary’s hand on the back of his waist, but his whole world had narrowed to here and now, the two of them.

 

Freddie was angry.

 

_How fucking dare he walk into my company and act like he deserves my respect?_

 

He reached out to grab Freddie, knowing just where to press with the heel of his hand to have him in agony in seconds. Freddie, however, wasn’t having it.

 

The sound of the slap echoed throughout the room, and Freddie’s hand stung with the strength of it. The handprint across his cheek was satisfyingly red, and Paul’s recoil told Freddie that it had been a shock, an unexpected counter-argument. It told Freddie that it had hurt.

 

He grabbed his bag quickly. “I’m not doing this.” He said immediately.

 

“Oh, but you are. You can’t just walk out.” Paul’s voice tried to sound level, but it failed miserably; he even sounded momentarily nervous.

 

“Fuck you.” Freddie replied, walking past him quickly and heading for the door. He pushed it open with one hand but paused momentarily, looking back at where he was rubbing blood off his face with his sleeve. “Everyone’s going to know what you did.”

 

It was a cursed promise, and Freddie had never been surer that he was telling the truth. He couldn’t back down from this fight even if he wanted to.

 

As he walked back down the stairs, his stomach twisted painfully, and he couldn’t help but feel like his heart was shattering in the same way as the glass had. The Royal wasn’t his home anymore. It couldn’t be, not if he had to work alongside that man everyday.

 

He’d rather give up everything. He’d dig out those old acceptance letters, take up a place somewhere else, somewhere halfway across the world, Russia or America or Germany or Australia. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, dance with this company anymore.

 

“Freddie!” He ignored his name being shouted behind him as he walked through the foyer of the Opera House, taking it all in, every carving, every statue, the way that the morning light cut through the big windows. If he stopped, he’d start thinking more, and he’d cry. Being taught to bottle up his emotions for so long finally played into his favour now; he bit his lip, felt the sting and ignored the pain in his heart.

 

“Freddie!” The voice was so insistent, accompanied by footsteps, faster paced than his own. As he reached the main door, touched the cold metal of the push-pad, a hand grabbed onto his shoulder. “Freddie, please.”

 

He glanced around at Olga; his chest strained with the weight of keeping his emotions tucked away. “I’m not dancing here anymore.” He told her; his fingers trembled as he swallowed heavily.

 

“What happened?” Her voice was so much softer, and it nearly broke him. He could do angry, he could deal with yelling and beatings and threats without losing his composure, but he couldn’t deal with disappointment and tears.

 

“I can’t work in the same company as that teacher.” He didn’t want to say it out loud, not all over again, not when he was doing so well.

 

“Freddie, you assaulted a member of staff!” Her voice took on a greater firmness then, and at least Freddie could deal with that.

 

“That you haven’t background checked!” He raised his voice then. “Because if you’d taken two seconds to request a fucking background check, or looked at his criminal record, then you’d understand why!”

 

“What do you know, Freddie?” The same firmness of voice, but decreased in volume.

 

Freddie swallowed and shook his head. “I’m not having this conversation here.” He turned away again. “Accept my resignation, clear out my pigeonhole, I don’t give a fuck. Clearly I’m not meant to be a dancer.”

 

 _Otherwise it wouldn’t be this fucking hard,_ he wanted to add.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Olga sounded like she was going to cry then, and Freddie couldn’t handle it. “Freddie, you’re the best dancer I’ve had in a long time. Don’t throw this away.”

 

He pushed the door open; the cold of the wind outside bit at his cheeks. “Don’t make me throw this away, then.” He stepped outside and the door closed heavily between them.

 

She didn't come after him.

 

It was over.

 

The phone managed two rings before Jim answered; Freddie stood shivering in the phone box, suddenly so glad for the scarf he’d insisted on this morning. “Jim?” Freddie asked quietly, and he didn’t even realise he was crying until it was too late, until he’d already heard everything.

 

“Freddie?” Jim sounded so worried. “Freddie, where are you? What happened? Are you hurt? Is it your lung? Are you still inside?”

 

He hated secrets, but the words wouldn’t come from his mouth. “I can’t tell you.” He whispered. “I can’t dance anymore. I can’t, I- I can’t.” He crammed a hand over his mouth to try and calm himself down; he bit down on the soft skin on the palm of his hand. “I’m in a phone box outside the Theatre Royal.”

 

“I’m coming to get you.” The reply was immediate; Freddie could hear him picking up the car keys from their dish by the phone.

 

* * *

 

Freddie sat bundled up in the blankets, his eyes closed as Jim held him close. Roger was cooking that evening, and while Jim usually helped to make sure it was edible, today he’d passed that responsibility to Brian. They sat on the sofa together; Freddie was just waking up after sleeping for a long while since they’d gotten home.

 

Freddie had assured him that he wasn’t injured, but that left Jim clueless as to why he’d been so upset when he’d called.

 

Jim combed his fingers through Freddie’s hair, checking for split-ends, smiling at the way that Freddie’s body seemed to melt against his from the smallest of affections.

 

“I resigned.” A tiny voice told Jim, and he nearly jumped with the shock. “From the Royal. I resigned. I’m not going to be dancer anymore.”

 

He might as well have told Jim that he wasn’t going to breathe anymore. “Why?” He asked gently, pulling him closer. “Sweetheart, you love dancing, and you’re so good at it.”

 

Freddie shook his head, resting it against Jim’s side. “Paul was there.” Those three words were enough to explain it to Jim and he sighed, pulling him in close.

 

“Did he hurt you?” He asked, careful not to upset Freddie.

 

“No.” Freddie murmured. “No, I-” His cheeks pinkened a little. “It was reported that I assaulted him. I threw a glass at him and then I slapped him. He went for my rib.”

 

Jim kissed the top of his head. “We’ll sort this out, sweetheart. You don’t have to resign because they gave the job to your abuser.”

 

Freddie wished it was that simple. “They’ll take him above me. He’s got more experience. He’s a better asset to the company.”

 

Jim tilted his head up gently. “He’s also about to go to court for the sexual assault and attempted murder of a vulnerable victim. I promise, Freddie, we’ll make this okay.”


	53. Latte Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day, again? Make sure to comment on the last chapter as well as this one - your comments and validation motivate me to write!

The girl - Lucy, Freddie had learned - glanced down at her drink, smiling a little. “Thank you so much for this.” She said shyly. “I don’t really know anything about being a professional, and no one I know is particularly enthusiastic about me doing it for a living.”

 

Freddie chuckled. “I’ve been there, darling.” He said gently. “It’s a strange career, because it can end at any second if you get too badly injured. I’ve had a couple of times where I’ve been worried that that might be it.” He took a sip of his coffee and tucked his legs underneath him. “But it’s also one of the most rewarding jobs in the world. The community, it’s incredible. All throughout your training, you’re constantly competing with everyone, and all that stops when you get your contract.”

 

She smiled then, properly. “I’ve heard some amazing things about the Royal.” She said softly. “I just- I have to get out of the National. I can’t keep working there.”

 

Freddie leaned in a little, not wanting to force her to talk any louder. “What problems are you having there?” He didn’t want to pry, but he needed to know. “I can tell you what it’s like at the Royal in comparison.”

 

Suddenly, he realised why he was so drawn to her. She was reserved, enclosed in the same way as he was; she struggled with eye contact, struggled to say exactly what she meant. She’d been trained to keep it in.

 

His stomach dropped.

 

“I-” She hesitated, glanced around quickly. “I was-” She shook her head quickly, grabbing her bag. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have wasted your time-”

 

Freddie reached out, held her hand gently, noticed how she tensed at his touch. “Did someone hurt you?” And maybe it was sick that he could recognise it from his own experience, that he knew the mark of the victim so well, her outward expression of all his inward emotions. He’d never met someone else like that before.

 

She nodded, looking as though she was about to cry, and Freddie held her cold hand in both of his. “You can tell me. You’re safe here, I promise.” Freddie caught her eye and tried his own little smile. “I was hurt, too.”

 

Her face became the picture of reassurance so quickly;  _ he’s so successful and he’s just like me.  _ Freddie had never truly acknowledged the power of his position before, but it crashed down on him then. It was his duty to show her that it wasn’t the end of her life.

 

“I was assaulted.” Lucy’s voice was so small. “By one of the teachers. Over and over again, for months.” She looked down then and Freddie moved around the table to draw her into a hug. “He raped me.” She whispered into his shoulder, struggling not to cry.

 

Freddie drew on everything that Jim had done for him in those times, and settled on rubbing her back gently. It was strange, to be on the other side of the conversation, but it was good to know that he did understand her. He knew what it was like. He wasn’t pretending for the sake of reassurance.

 

“You’re so strong.” Freddie promised her. “You’re so much stronger than you know. This- you might never forget it, and you might have to live the rest of your life with it, but you’ll heal.” He held her so closely. “I was sexually assaulted by a male teacher for months, but I’m starting to heal now. I promise, you’ll heal.”

 

He hated saying those words aloud. He hated admitting what had happened. He hated people knowing, people judging him, people knowing his darkest secrets. 

 

He had a duty to let her know that she wasn’t alone.

 

“Was it someone from the Royal?” She asked; her voice sounded so broken. 

 

Freddie closed his eyes for a moment. Talking about it too much brought the memories back, brought the words to the forefront of his mind, sent him spiralling downwards again.

 

_ Your body wanted me so badly, baby. How many times did you make a mess because of me, hm? You liked it rough. _

 

He bit back a shaky breath. He was the one in control here.

 

“No.” He replied eventually. “No, I met them through the Royal, but it wasn’t a member of staff. It was a visiting teacher from the National.”

 

She nodded and rested her head against his shoulder. She felt safe with him, knowing he’d been through it too. “Can you tell me what his name was?” Freddie asked quietly, wondering whether he’d get those words that he was dreading.

 

She was quiet for a long time, and Freddie wasn’t going to push her. He tried to train his mind off the thoughts that were stuck fast now; he wished he had a pen, to draw, to take his mind off things. It was the silliest way of coping with it, but it felt natural and instinctive to him, to paint himself with beautiful drawings to help him settle his mind.

 

_ They call you the company whore. He’ll spread his legs for anybody that’ll pay him the slightest bit of attention. He’ll suck off any man he needs to get to the top. _

 

The shaking was getting worse, and he balled his hands into fists. He couldn’t let him win, not now, not when he was supposed to be the strong one. He closed his eyes tightly, glad that she wasn’t looking his face; he pinched his thigh, even pressed down over the scar on his rib to try and distract himself from the awful, inescapable sensation of panic.

 

_ That’s why you rolled over with your legs in the air and made all those pretty sounds for me. I bet no one else makes you purr like that, slut. _

 

Another voice started, louder, drowning out the repetitions of the awful phrases going through his head.

 

_ Five things you can see, sweetheart. _

 

He glanced around quickly. The flower painted in milk on the top of his latte; the bright yellow nails of the woman sitting across from them; a small dog, asleep on the floor; a pile of books spilled out of a young girl’s bag; pastries in the counter display.

 

_ How about four things you can touch? _

 

His fingers smoothed over where he’d been pinching; the roughness of the denim of his jeans. He ran a hand through his hair; it was soft. He touched the smooth faces of the ruby on his ring. He felt the satin of his top.

 

_ Now tell me three things that you can hear, my love. Outside things. _

 

He looked back over at the counter. He could hear the whirring of their coffee machine. He could hear chatter around him and, if he listened closely, he could hear faint music from the Opera House.

 

_ Try two things you can smell. _

 

Lucy’s hair smelled faintly of peaches, Freddie acknowledged. He could smell Jim’s cologne, by now a scent of all of his clothes from hugs and kisses.

 

_ What can you taste? _

 

Chamomile. The taste made Freddie smile; it was the first taste he’d ever noticed on Jim’s lips.

 

He could breathe.

 

Lucy looked up at him, squeezed his hand gently. “Freddie?” She asked quietly. “What happened? You just disappeared on me.”

 

He smiled a little. “I’m sorry, darling. Sometimes the memories get to me.” He offered; of all people, she would understand. “It’s just my little way of dealing with it. It stops me from getting lost in my own head, you see.”

 

She looked a little nervous. “Did I trigger it?” She asked, sounding so apologetic. “Oh, I’m so sorry, if I’d known-”

 

He shook his head quickly. “It’s all part of healing.” He told her; he swallowed a mouthful of his coffee. “You have to learn to deal with your triggers. I’m still learning.” He said honestly.

 

She nodded. She hadn’t trusted someone this much in a long time, but he knew what he was talking about, and maybe he could finally help her. “You asked what he was called.” She said quietly. “His name’s Paul. Paul Prenter.”

 

And Freddie was glad he’d grounded himself, else the news would’ve made him spiral again. “Same here, darling.” He said softly. “But we’ll be okay. I promise you.”

 

She was eighteen, Freddie knew, but at that moment she seemed so much younger. Maybe that was how everyone else saw him. “How can you know that?” She asked, sounding pained. “We can’t just get rid of him and pretend he never existed.”

 

Freddie took another long breath, let his eyes dart around again. Latte; yellow nails; dog; books; pastries. “He’s been charged with my sexual assault and attempted murder.” He told her. He couldn’t believe he was confiding so much in a near stranger. “We’ll get the court date soon. I’m going to do my best to get him sent down for what he’s done.”

 

* * *

 

He sat on the floor of the dining room and pulled a little box from the cabinet at the side. He opened it carefully, and took the shoes from their protective bag inside; Siberian Swan Karsavinas. The shoes in his pigeonhole at the Royal had never been technically uncomfortable, but they were designed for a body that wasn’t his. He’d never had the heart to ask them for different ones.

 

Slipping the Karsavinas on was like coming home. They were pointe shoes that didn’t hurt, were built wide enough for his feet, for him to be able to use a thicker toe pad. He used them sparingly, knowing how expensive they were; he didn’t have over a hundred pounds to pay for new ones when these broke.

 

He stood in the window, looking out at the garden, warming up his feet and ankles to take the strain. He didn’t have any reason to protect them anymore, if he was honest when he said that he wouldn’t dance anymore. He had always saved them for his first show as principal, his dream since a little boy, but he had all but given up on that now.

 

He didn’t even dance properly when he went up, just turning sweetly, swaying to the music on the radio, letting himself feel the power of the shoes and the way that they commanded his body.

 

Jim watched him from the doorway, looking with curiosity at the shoes; the sole was wider than he’d seen before, and Freddie hadn’t made any of his usual alterations besides sewing the ribbons. Even watching him go up, there was no hint at the pain that he usually felt momentarily, the initial discomfort of standing on the end of his toes.

 

He came closer, wrapping one arm around his waist and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Freddie smiled a little, but it didn’t touch his eyes. He felt lost now, purposeless, a child playing at being a ballerina instead of a man that had been so close.

 

“Don’t leave them, my love.” Jim said softly. “You don’t have to leave. We can sort it out, together. You can’t give up on it when you’ve come so far and gotten so close.” He cupped Freddie’s cheek and smoothed the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone.

 

Freddie closed his eyes momentarily, letting himself be held. “I can’t dance somewhere that supports people like him.” He said quietly. “They didn’t check. They didn’t even consider the damage he might have done.” He paused, wrapped his arms around Jim and hugged him. “It wasn’t just me. It was his students, too.”   
  
“If you leave then you can’t change that.” Jim said quietly. “You have the chance to change it from the inside. You have the chance to protect other people. It’s a chance not worth throwing away, Freddie.”

 

He considered it for a few seconds, resting his head on Jim’s shoulder. A chance to protect other people. “You really think?”

 

“I really do, sweetheart.” Jim said quietly. “Be a star, and be a trailblazer at the same time. You can do it.”


	54. Harmonies Du Soir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the music comes many repressed thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give us more Jim, the people cried; and so I gave them more Jim.
> 
> Thank you so much for 10,000 hits on Fluorescent! I never thought that an AU story would get this big; I never thought so many of you would also like to indulge in my little ballet fantasy. Also big shoutout to Lindsey for being the 10,000th hit!

The weight of the keys against his fingers was still an unusual resistance. Moving from an electric keyboard, easy keys and smooth chords, to practising on the Bechstein was a big jump in terms of their characteristics. As much as he loved the comparative ease of the keyboard, the Bechstein amplified the music in a way that made every piece feel new and special.

 

He liked to play for the sake of playing; it was a beautiful piano, deserving of its own story, not merely the backing to the voice of another. Freddie always played for voice, but he played for the piano itself, giving it a brief moment where it had the ability to speak, to sing for itself, the master and the slave to those dutiful hands which elicited those dulcet tones.

 

He rarely played when Freddie was home. He would obsequiously tap out a tune for an early morning warm-up, something soft and simple and sweet, or would gently correct the placement of his lover’s hands when something wasn’t working properly. It was usually only Roger home when he played, properly, the old pieces that he adored combined with his own pieces, quick and fast and insistent for attention.

 

Maybe it was ridiculous that he’d never really mentioned it to Freddie. It was strange to think that of all people, it made him nervous to confess to his lover his true passion, his real dream. He, of all people, understood the thrill of performance, of creating something beautiful to be widely shared and enjoyed.

 

Maybe he was afraid of telling him because of how little his success had been. He’d been in London for four years without a break, without ever scoring more than a short-term contract and once being called back for the creation of a film score. He wasn’t successful in the same way that his lover was; Freddie represented that archetype that he wanted to be, the man that dropped everything for his dreams and for whom the world had welcomed with open arms. The world wanted him to dance, wanted to put him onstage to twirl and be loved by the public.

 

Jim made a conscious effort to slow down playing the bridge, knowing his tendency to speed it up, to make it sound more complex and challenging. Auditorily, however, it sounded much better slower.

 

Maybe he was afraid of telling Freddie because of the connotations. It wasn’t the most masculine of dreams, the most stable of jobs, the most understandable career. He longed for the long hours, yielding and fighting back against those trying to alter back, working collaboratively on a project that he would be the one to showcase. He longed for people to have him rewrite parts over and over again, to spit out different tunes at set rhythms, to play for the performance of others as well as for his own sake.

 

Sometimes he had a wave of jealousy against Freddie. He didn’t want to be him, nor did he desire a career the same, but he was jealous of the ease in which he’d gotten what he wanted and, by all accounts, what he deserved. When he sat there in performances, the moments in which his lover wasn’t onstage, his attention was often occupied instead by the pianist, the comforting rhythms that Freddie had been taught to lose himself in.

 

As the song drew towards the close, he became more fluid in his movements, fingers tapping the keys with lightness and grace. He didn’t understand his own aversion to the stereotypes of his career. Everything based in music and the arts was shunned as feminine, as though there was no room for people like himself. Freddie, gorgeous and effeminate, played into every stereotype of his art, and so people were almost less inclined to question him.

 

People were still stuck on the possibility of Jim achieving a white picket fence and two point four children when this phase was over. People had never questioned Freddie proudly showing off his ring, speaking of his boyfriend; he was a male ballet dancer,  _ it was to be anticipated, really, did you see those shoes?  _ Jim, on the other hand, got those reassuring squeezes on the shoulder, the pitying smiles, the questions about children and  _ maybe you just haven’t found the right girl yet. _

 

It even plagued him sometimes that maybe Freddie didn’t understand the whole story. Freddie had always turned to him as a form of comfort and support, the big man that would look after the younger boy; the masculine one, the protective one. He was afraid, in some way, that Freddie would think less of him if he defied those expectations, if he suddenly admitted that maybe his ambitions were equally crazy and unstable and less rock solid than he thought.

 

He hated people’s perception of them. He hated the way they looked at Freddie -  _ oh, he’s the boy from the ballet, hanging off the arm of an older man!  _ He felt guilty for being jealous of how easily accepted Freddie was, even in a swath of bright colours and blush on his cheeks and pink satin shoes. He’d undergone enough merciless teasing for choosing to be a hairdresser,  _ could you choose to be any more stereotypically gay? _

 

He sat back on the stool and sighed. He didn’t hold it against Freddie, not in the slightest; he loved him so much, every single little thing, late night shows to helping to darn holes in tights. He loved the silly outfits, that God awful crop top that he very occasionally wore to rehearsals, the rainbow leg warmers to stop his muscles building up with too much lactic acid. He loved the long eyelashes and dark lips and the slender body in the bed next to his. He just wished that people would treat them the same for once.

 

Freddie had seemed to find his place in the community so quickly,  _ buy me white wine and call me pretty,  _ while Jim was still searching for his. Jim had more experience by far, years of sleazy hookups in bars and boyfriends for a few weeks and even one older man that he thought he might live with forever. He’d been the younger, been the older, been the more or less experienced, been the dominant and been the submissive, and yet he still wasn’t quite sure how to describe himself even now. He loved caring for Freddie, looking after somebody who needed him so much; he had found a place in being wanted and needed, a feeling which he clung to and he adored.

 

He’d never really had that feeling from anyone else.

 

His parents, while accepting, had always been a little reserved when it came to showing outward pride and affection: Jim had rarely felt wanted or needed with them, nor in the community of his birth, and hence why he’d decided to move. Freddie needed him in a different way, of course, but he could get drunk on the feeling of him clutching close in the early hours of the morning, mumbling his name sleepily and falling back asleep in his arms.

 

He didn’t want to jeopardise that with his own insecurity. He didn’t want to jeopardise it with feelings of jealousy, of allowing his own unfulfilled dreams to come between them. It wasn’t Freddie’s fault that the auditions never went to plan.

 

Jim cracked his knuckles and started to play again. While Freddie’s story made him jealous, it also made him hopeful. The boy defeated all the odds, moved from India to London without knowing a soul, and had made it to First Soloist in six months. He’d already had the opportunity before he’d moved, and that was the difference.

 

The piano grew louder.

 

Jim just had to wait a little longer for his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I discovered that Steve McRae can dance pointe in tap shoes and I am beyond astounded so that's definitely coming up in a chapter (whoever mentioned the Mad Hatter somewhere back around chapter thirty when he auditioned for Mayerling - I've got you). The crop top is a direct reference to something he wore in rehearsals for Alice.
> 
> Tomorrow I'm going to Covent so I'm very excited to go and see the Opera House again (specifically relevant for a later chapter!).


	55. Emeralds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dream, and the fulfilling of a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely woke up at 6:20 this morning to write this because I've had no other time. I've planned this out again (for maybe the fourth time now?) and it's actually going to become even longer so that we have the chance to watch their professional development and general happiness!

_ Jim walked with his hands in his pockets, gaze rarely moving from the ground in front of him. Another audition, another mistake in the same part of the song. The towering theatres of Leicester Square seemed to mock him that day, promising that he would never work there, that he would always be confined to a little hairdresser in Kensington. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, unbearably hot in his stiff white shirt. _

 

_ He glanced over at the little children splashing in the fountains, families sprawled out over the grass, and smiled a little. He’d bring Freddie here for a picnic one day in his lunch hour, both of them lounging comfortably in the sun and sharing warm and lazy kisses. _

 

_ His eyes grazed over a young man, laid out alone in the sunshine, only the tiniest of shorts to preserve his modesty. He lay on his front, nose buried in a book, and Jim felt his interest peak a little as he looked over his torso. Lean, strong, undeniably sexy. _

 

_ He chastised himself. He wasn’t supposed to be looking at other men when he had his own beautiful boy tucked away in a hot rehearsal room in the Opera House. _

 

_ The man turned over quickly, letting the sun touch his stomach instead, and Jim’s heart leaped into his mouth. The man was gorgeous, and Jim was feeling a little deprived at the moment as it was. _

 

_ He adjusted his sunglasses, putting his book down momentarily, and rolling back onto his front. As he propped them on his head, Jim almost growled in both surprise and satisfaction. _

 

_ That was his man, so irresistibly stretched out in the sunlight. _

 

_ He walked closer instinctively, unbuttoning his shirt a little in that way that drew Freddie crazy. He sat beside him, rested his hand on those tiny shorts, and felt the way that he jumped beneath him. As soon as Freddie saw his face, however, he grinned devilishly, wrapping an arm around Jim’s neck and pulling him down to those sinful lips- _

 

It was late in the morning, later than their usual wake-up time, and Freddie was pressed up so close to his side. Jim cursed internally; Freddie clung like a vice when he was asleep, especially more so recently when Jim had been having these dreams that drove him insane. It sometimes felt as though he did this deliberately, lay practically on top of him, thigh pressed a little too close, as though he was teasing to see how far he could push Jim.

 

Jim carefully brushed Freddie’s hair from his face, dropping a kiss on his warm cheek. The man was driving him a little insane at the moment, dabbling in more and more casual intimacy; whilst Jim adored it - it proved that Freddie was healing, and was becoming more comfortable, and that they one day might have a normal relationship together - it also drove him crazy that he got to look and not to touch. 

 

And if Freddie thought he was being subtle when he looked Jim up and down and bit his lip, trying to find secret moments to check him out, then he was mistaken. 

 

He needed a shower.

 

* * *

 

Freddie wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck as he glanced into the counter. Soft fingers trailed over the glass as he sought the perfect gift; really, he couldn’t believe he’d left it so long to buy Jim’s Christmas present, but he supposed that he could be forgiven because of recent events. 

 

He stood on his toes to peek in the top of a cabinet, feeling so at home yet so out of place in the jewellery section. He loved jewellery, but he realistically didn’t know much about it besides what looked pretty.

 

He was stuck between emeralds and rubies. Part of him wanted the emerald: the complete opposite to his colour, the gorgeous colour of his eyes that would sit so well against his pale skin. However, the other part of him wanted them to match, quasi-engagement rings. He’d never thought it was fair that Jim didn’t have one, didn’t have that symbol of commitment and promise that grounded Freddie on a near-daily basis.

 

“Mr. Mercury?” And God, Freddie still wasn’t used to being recognised in public, and especially not in upmarket establishments like this. He turned quickly, meeting the eyes of a young, dark-haired woman who smiled immediately. “You’ll have to forgive me, I thought it was you and I couldn’t resist. I work here, can I help you with anything?”

 

Freddie smiled shyly, ducking his head down a little. He needed to get over this immediate shyness if he was going to work in the arts for the rest of his life, but right now his first reaction still remained nervousness. “Rubies or emeralds?” He replied quietly, glancing back into the cabinet at the two rings he was stuck between.

 

“For yourself?” She replied, quickly unlocking the cabinet to retrieve the tray. She glanced down at his hands, noticed his own ring sat proudly, and smiled. “I’d say stick with the rubies if you’re going to be wearing it, so that it can match your other one. The red works nicely with your skin tone, too.”

 

“For my-” Sometimes the word boyfriend was still hard to say, even now, a part of his mind repressing his expression of his sexuality for his own safety. He had to remind himself that this was England, he was accepted, it was okay. “For my boyfriend. He’s a lot paler than I am.” He couldn’t hold back his smile. He loved talking about Jim. “He’s Irish.”

 

She smiled at his shyness. She’d never imagined a performer to be so self-consciousness, so gentle of spirit. “I’d probably still say the ruby.” She chuckled. “As long as you’re okay with matching. We have a beautiful one over here-” She picked up just the one that had seized his heart, a small oval of Ruby attached to two thin gold bands running parallel. 

 

Freddie thought of their hands intertwined, even in the most mundane of situations; standing on the tube at rush hour, trying not to lose one another; Freddie walking Jim to work on his way to the station, or picking him up if he was finished early; holding hands over the dinner table. Imagining their hands intertwined, the red standing out from both their fingers, filled Freddie with joy.

 

“I’ll take it.” He said happily.   
__

* * *

 

It turned out that Freddie wasn’t very good at wrapping. He seemed to argue with the paper, even tearing it a little, unable to hold it in place while he tried to wrap the little box.

 

He stood up, crossed his arms, and ventured out into the house. “John?” He called hopefully, searching each individual room and finding a lack of any friends. He frowned, walked downstairs towards the dining room, his face lighting up when he came across everyone, instruments poised. 

 

“I’ll be with you in just two seconds, darling.” He smiled at Brian; he was always incessantly bored when he wasn’t at ballet, and this was a welcome distraction. “I just need to steal John for a minute.”

 

And really, Freddie would be lying if he pretended he’d done any more than hold down little flaps of paper and torn off pieces of cellotape for John to work magic on the wrapping. But it did look gorgeous in that gold paper that Freddie had chosen, and he felt proud of his own work. 

 

He was excited for his first Christmas.


	56. Vermillion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like healing, even though it should be a step backwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an unnecessarily long wait for this chapter!!! I'm so sorry. My A Levels start in 5 weeks which means I'm in intense study mode and I just have no time or energy to get words onto paper (or onto ao3, in this case). I'm still aiming for uploads 3-4 times a week, but it all depends on how my weeks are structured.
> 
> In better news, I've gotten my theatre grade from a C to an A* and I'm very happy about it!

Jim grunted into his pillow, arm tightening around Freddie as soon as he tried to leave the bed. It was early morning and Jim liked to keep his lover safe and tight; Freddie’s closeness had become a norm that he’d come to love. He rested his forehead against the back of his neck, pressing a lazy kiss there as he started to wake up slowly.

 

“Darling-” Freddie’s voice was a sleepy whisper, and all Jim wanted to do was to tug him back into their collective warmth, the little piece of the earth that he loved more than anything. “Darling, it’s really early, go back to sleep.”

 

Jim made a small noise into his neck, never once ceasing in his grip. “Stay.” He murmured tiredly, resting his face in Freddie’s hair and moving impossibly nearer.

 

“I have to go to ballet.” Freddie whispered, smiling to himself at Jim’s sudden desire to clutch to him. To find a lover who loved intimacy and closeness as much as him never failed to make him feel warm inside.

 

Jim cracked one eye open and shut it again immediately. “No sun.” He tucked the blanket back around them both; it was freezing outside, and he could feel goosebumps raise on Freddie’s arm. “Not yet.”

 

Freddie laughed, and the sound of his laugh, still half-asleep, made Jim want to do all sorts of silly things like marry him then and there. “My class is five until twelve.”

 

Jim groaned just at the sound of his schedule, never once relenting in holding him tightly. “It’s Christmas Eve.” He murmured blearily, coming round a little more.

 

“No sleep for the wicked.” Freddie pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m on a half day. Go back to sleep, my dear, and I’ll be home in no time.”

 

And maybe Jim was a little more tired than he thought; he rolled over, fell back asleep, and didn’t wake again until he heard Freddie’s animated and excited voice coming from the kitchen, matched in tone by its feminine counterpart. He yawned and rubbed his hand over his eyes, standing up slowly before heading down the stairs.

 

Freddie sat on the dining table, cradling his mug of tea - chamomile, Jim could smell, which made him smile; they were becoming one person. He was still dressed in his ballet tights, his hair a little sweaty, and it took Jim no time to sit beside him, an arm around his waist, forehead on his shoulder as he yawned again.

 

“Someone’s tired.” Freddie teased and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I don’t want to hear it, darling. I’m never doing seven hours of dance before midday ever again.”

 

“You’re clearly a psychopath.” Jim’s head bumped against Freddie’s jaw as he sat back up again, and he noticed his wince immediately. It was too much for such a small movement. Jim’s hand immediately cupped his jaw, tilting his head up: the skin was red and sore, a fresh bruise. Freddie didn’t try and hide it, and the realisation made him soften even while anxiety ate at his core. Freddie had finally stopped hiding from him, stopped covering tears and injuries and memories that haunted him in the middle of the night; but he was still being hurt. “What happened?” He asked quietly.

 

Freddie stood up quickly, sliding off the table with such an ease of movement that it almost seemed choreographed. “I’m going for a shower.” Jim’s gut dropped, immediately assuming he was trying to avoid questions, trying to shut him out. “Come upstairs in a little while and we’ll talk about it. I’ve got some other stuff to tell you, too.”

 

To Jim, it felt like maturity: it felt like Freddie was growing to be able to express himself properly, to command situations and dictate his own life. To Freddie, those words filled him with fear: he still expected a retaliation for trying to take control.

 

Jim caught his wrist gently and pressed a kiss to where the bones stood out. “I’ll be there.” He promised, dropping a kiss on Freddie’s lips when he felt him soften. “I love you.”

 

Freddie smiled, lips parted and eyes sparkling with it. There was no expression in the world that Jim loved more than he loved his boyfriend’s wide smile, the one so genuinely happy; even with the new smudge of bruise across his jawbone, those words still struck him alight. Freddie burned, the prettiest candle of them all, a fire of passion and love and ambition that kept Jim warm through the chilled winter nights, the nights when he’d lost his love of the coldness of London.

 

* * *

 

_He hunched his shoulders, tensing his stomach to prepare himself both physically and mentally for the next blow. It was the body language they’d talked about, his mind programmed to diffuse situations by being obsequious and charming and the sweetest little boy that anyone had ever had the pleasure to know. His whole body screamed use me, do whatever you want to me but please, please leave me alone._

 

_He closed his eyes, and that was another thing she’d mentioned. He liked to close his eyes, to pretend it was a dream; by cutting off the visual, it was easier to compartmentalise it into the back of his brain. Instances of violence, of pain, easily merged into one, a memorable sensation of being punched until he vomited with no motive or connection to reality._

 

_He thought desperately to himself, every part of their conversations together, every little thing she’d programmed into his brain. Two weeks, five sessions._

 

_I am worthy of defending myself. I am worthy of being strong._

 

_I am allowed to protect myself and put myself first._

 

_His hands flew up to meet the next punch. An arm smacked dully against his palms, the weight of the punch draining through the connection between them. He opened his eyes quickly, took in the hatred in the gaze before him._

 

_“Drop the case.”_

 

_He kept the eye contact, shifted his weight to his left foot. He remained silent, but his silence was defiance._

 

_I am allowed to protect myself and put myself first._

 

_He shrieked when he was picked up, when he was shoved against the wall._

 

_“Drop the case against me, or you know what happens. Your poor little sister, Mr. Mercury.”_

 

_He allowed himself to be held and curled his toes in his shoes. Tap shoes._

 

_He jammed his toe, the steel-capped toe, into his crotch; he bit viciously at the shoulder of the man that held him, and he didn’t stop until he tasted blood._

 

_He was dropped._

 

_He ran out of the bathroom, into the hallway, and he screamed. He screamed as loud as his throat would allow him to, for as long as his lungs could bear, only until a hand covered his mouth and nose._

 

_He bit at the hand, hands flying up to grab at wrists, and met the eyes of a choreographer down the hallway._

 

_What a mess he must have looked, his own blood trickling from his nose, a gash from where his head had hit the sink, an ugly bruise forming under his jaw from a solid right-hand hook that had sent him to the floor._

 

_He let himself sink to the floor of the corridor again as more and more people approached them: first Christopher, then Olga, the men and women from his rehearsal which had been just across the hallway. The adrenaline left his veins, and suddenly he was so very tired; he wanted to go home, to have a shower, to be with the people he loved._

 

_He was tired of fighting. He was tired of hurting. He was tired of being intimidated, being threatened. He’d finally proved to them what was happening._

 

* * *

 

Freddie had never expected to find security in clothes, but he loved the feeling of moving from a fluffy towel - he’d seen Jim always use an extra dose of fabric softener for their towels, knowing how much Freddie loved the softness against his skin - into a big sweater, one decidedly not his and smelling of his lover.

 

He loved to pull the collar of the sweater over his nose, warming it when he was cold and filling him with the scent of him and his boyfriend combined. He loved the way that the sleeves were too long, that he had to roll them up to do anything with his hands. He loved the way the sweater hung loosely over his tight shorts and his t-shirt, enveloping him in a hug between dances as though Jim were there to hug him from behind each time.

 

He wore that outfit this afternoon, still half convinced that he’d try to get a little more practice in before his day off tomorrow. The nature of the sport was intense, needing constant stretches and exercises to maintain his fitness and his flexibility throughout their long seasons. There was no such thing as a day off, not really; every morning started with stretches, a simple vinyasa to sort out his bitchy little hamstrings or calves that protested a day en pointe,

 

He wondered idly how he’d feel tomorrow as he dragged the towel through his hair. Tap was so different to ballet, necessitating quick movements, and a lot of them. Even when classical ballet was fast, there was an ease and grace to it that made moving from one position to another so logical, a system that he knew so well. To dance tap again after such a long time was to remind his muscles of what it felt to jolt, to hold his body softly when it automatically wanted to stand up and straight, to land on his heels instead of the balls of his feet or his toes.

 

The bathroom door was ajar; Freddie didn’t mind company when he was applying all the lotions and potions in the world to keep himself and his body looking pretty as a spring daisy.

 

Hands rested on his waist, squeezed him gently, and Freddie lost himself momentarily in that feeling of safety and security. Smallness, lightness, was a blessing and a curse; he was easy to move in ballet, easy to be carried and thrown around with the strangest grace in the world. He loved never fitting in others’ clothes, rolling up sleeves and cuffs of jeans and being drowned in that feeling of love that came with an old sweater much too large for him. He loved fitting in small spaces, taking up a minute amount of room on the sofa, bending and slipping into the smallest spaces to command affection and attention.

 

But smallness was weakness, too easy to be picked up or pinned down by the wrong pair of hands.

 

Freddie glanced down at the hands resting on his sides and he smiled.

 

Not anymore.

 

He stood on his toes to kiss Jim gently, feeling such a sense of peace overtake him. He’d had this feeling before, after beatings: to know that it was over, that the worst had come and passed and that he was safe from it from a little while was the biggest comfort in the world. He smiled a little as those hands held him close, his hands tangling in the soft hair at the base of Jim’s skull, toying with the bluntness of the strands between his fingers. It was a lazy kiss, neither man truly committed to making it more passionate, both lost in the familiarity of the other’s lips.

 

“Was it him?” Jim asked softly, and Freddie nodded, dropping his head down to rest on Jim’s shoulder as they stood together. Maybe he needed more of a rest than he thought; he was risking the exhaustion again, and it was never a good state to get to.

 

_Slow down, Freddie._

 

He pressed another kiss to Jim’s collarbone. “Did he get you anywhere else?” Jim pressed a kiss to the top of his head in response, pulling him a little closer. “I thought they said they’d separate you?”

 

“Stomach.” The skin there was still tender from the force of the blows. “When he punched me, I hit the sink on the way down.” Jim was surprised by how level he sounded; he usually struggled to maintain his composure after an incident. “They took me out of his morning class and thought it would be enough. I went into the elite class. They didn’t think about what would happen if he followed me into the bathroom when no one was looking.”

 

Jim picked him up and sat him on the counter in the bathroom, letting him rest against him. “How did it play out?” He asked softly.

 

“I- I remembered something.” Freddie glanced up at him, and Jim could see the sleepiness behind his eyes. He loved Freddie like this, the times when he felt the youngest, when he fell asleep on the sofa and had to be carried to bed. It was the same challenge as a newborn baby, getting him to bed without waking him, wrapping him up in the covers just to know that he’d be warm while he slept.

 

“What was that, my love?” One of Jim’s hands trailed to the small of his back and rubbed soft circles there.

 

“I-” The blush across his cheeks was gorgeous, and he hid his face by lying his hot cheek back in the crook of Jim’s shoulder. “I didn’t tell you. The hospital put me in contact with a trauma therapist.” He said quietly. “I’ve been to see her a few times. We’ve been talking about my self talk and my body language.”

 

The idea of that alone made Jim smile. He adored that Freddie wanted help, that he would go out of his way, finally, to talk to trained professionals that would make his head a little easier to live in. “I’m so proud of you.” He felt as though he repeated that statement a lot, and he definitely did, but it never seemed to lose its meaning.

 

“We talked about giving yourself permission to defend yourself. I am allowed to put myself first.” The words sounded terribly nervous and shaky, but Jim could tell that Freddie had gripped onto them. “And so I did. I kicked him in the balls and then I bit him and he let me go. By the time he caught up with me I’d raised the alarm.”

 

Jim tilted his chin up and kissed him again, long and slow, each movement of his lips like an unspoken word of praise and adoration. “I love you.” He said softly as they broke away. “I love you so much.”

 

Freddie smiled sleepily. He was starting to lose his fear of telling Jim the truth; the man knew some of the worst things, the fragments of memory that he would bleach from his brain if he could, and he still wanted him. He wanted him for who he was, the little Parsi boy with the mixed-up head, not just the pretty young dancer.

 

“I love you too.” He replied, voice just as gentle.

 

* * *

 

_“Are those tap shoes in your bag, Freddie?”_

 

_A blush scorches its way across his cheeks as he kicks the bag behind him quickly. Classical dancers don’t dance anything aside from their chosen form. “Just an old bag.” He tries to justify himself quickly, never quite making eye contact._

 

_“Freddie.” The voice softens and she stands in front of him. “Freddie, sweetheart, I’m not here to tell you off for it. Can you tap dance?”_

 

_He nods shyly and clasps his hands together. “I haven’t put much time into it, though, not like I have the ballet-”_

 

_Her smile breaks him off and he reluctantly smiles back. “I looked through your audition notes and it says that you did tapping for them then. They thought you were very good.”_

 

_If his cheeks were tinted before, now they were stained with vermillion. “Thank you, ma’am.” He says shyly._

 

_“I’m casting for the next ballet. We’re doing Alice.” He glances up quickly, nervousness fading to curiousness. “And I can’t decide whether I want you as my Mad Hatter, my caterpillar or my Jack of Hearts.”_

 

_The smile that broke onto his face was bright, luminous, fluorescent._

 

_“You’ll need to audition, of course, but I’ll be thinking about it. Come and see me in your break and we’ll have a look at what you can do to mix ballet with your tap.”_

 

_His feet ached, his legs more so, the victims of a constant fight between ballet-tap-ballet-tap-ballet-tap. Standing en pointe in tap shoes pinched his toes, and the lactic acid in his muscles made him feel as though he’d never walk again._

 

_As he lay on the floor of the studio, chest still heaving, he heard voices from across the room. He picked up one phrase._

 

_“That was fucking incredible, you know? I want him in.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steven McRae on the Mad Hatter (my forever source): https://youtu.be/vYJzk9WhyTQ


	57. Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fresh fruit on Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This reads like a Roald Dahl book and I don't even know why. I need to stop writing unplanned chapters and actually stick to my plan if this plotline is going to go anywhere but I wanted to write some Christmas Eve soft boys and also solidify their dynamic! I also really wanted some Irish accent love honestly.

_ You’ll marry a music man. _

  
  


“Can I brush your hair? It’s all knotty.”

 

Freddie smiled as he grabbed his hairbrush from the coffee table; he had a habit of brushing it anywhere other than at the mirror in his bedroom, and so it moved around accordingly. “You don’t have to ask.” Freddie said softly. “You know I love it.”

 

Jim grinned himself as he set to work carefully detangling it. Freddie had a tendency to brush it when it was already detangled, and then to wash it without brushing it after ballet. Jim sometimes wondered how he had any hair left, considering the knots after a day’s work. 

 

He was almost convinced that Freddie left it all tangled just to give him a job. It was like he’d picked up on his strange love of the task, the fact that he dragged it out for as long as he could, brushing out each individual section until it crackled with static. He could draw it out for half an hour, listening to the satisfied sounds leaving Freddie’s lips as his scalp was massaged with blunt bristles.

 

More often than not, Freddie ended up in his lap, carefully slotted between his legs or lounged over his thighs. He wasn’t sure when he’d come to love this so much: Freddie in his lap, dressed in one of his sweaters, sipping tea as he watched whatever Christmas film was showing that Christmas Eve. He wasn’t sure when he’d come to love looking after him quite so much, but he often found himself making excuses in his mind;  _ it’s fine, it’s not like he minds the fuss. It’s just to help soothe his mind. He likes to be reminded I’m here. _

 

Sometimes, though, he was nervous that Freddie would think he was stifling him. The claim was ungrounded, and he knew that: Freddie had never once gotten angry over stolen kisses or casual touches or holding him when he was trying to do something.

 

When he’d finished with the knots, he ran the brush through his hair, other hand resting on the arm of the sofa. Freddie picked up that hand mindlessly, played with his fingers for a few moments before settling on just holding his first finger. Jim smiled, shifting so that he could lay back a little, bringing Freddie closer; the boy smiled, settled in his favourite position with his head on Jim’s shoulder, cheek pressed up against his collarbone, never once letting go of his finger.

 

Jim looked at their hands and sighed happily. It was as though they had to be touching at all times, even the most mundane of moments framed by their closeness. He could feel their love in that small touch, his boyfriend just reminding him of his presence, but he could also feel Freddie’s dependence.

 

He wasn’t sure when Freddie started laughing, when he’d turned his head into Jim’s neck, trembling with the force of his giggles; he wasn’t sure when Freddie’s hand had bunched in his shirt. “What’s so funny?” Jim asked, unable to repress his own laughter just from the sound of Freddie’s.

 

“Nothing.” The word was slightly muffled. “Nothing, I’m just-” He stretched out again, and Jim took in the look of genuine calm and joy on his face. “I’m really happy.”

 

Jim brought him into a soft kiss and smiled into it. “Any reason, sweetheart?” He asked curiously as they pulled away, stroking his thumb over the soft skin on his cheekbone.

 

Freddie smiled up at him, cheeks pink with a blush more often present than not. “You.” He said softly; a hand came up to cup his cheek, and Jim could feel the cold metal of his ring against his skin. “You’ve made me so happy, my darling.”

 

Those words were like a phrase Jim had been waiting to hear his whole life. He was hearing somebody that accepted him, that loved him, that he’d been able to help. He’d caused the smile on that face.

 

As Jim was about to kiss him again, Freddie leaned back with a devilish smile. “You know what would make this even better?” He asked teasingly.

 

Jim humoured him, wrapping an arm around him to stop him from falling as he sat up in his lap. “What would that be, my sweet?” 

 

“Strawberries.” The word was sweet on his lips as Jim kissed the laugh off his lips. “Please?” He batted his eyelashes, and Jim was so gone.

 

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Mercury.” He narrowed his eyes playfully, picking Freddie up easily and carrying him into the kitchen, setting him down on the counter next to the fridge. He stole kisses as he cut the strawberries into halves, occasionally popping one in Freddie’s mouth whole when he started to complain that Jim was taking too much time.

 

He found a strange enjoyment in doing things for his lover, even unnecessary things like cutting his food for him. He loved to do it, almost as a proof of his love.

 

He arranged the strawberries as little flower petals, all centred around a chocolate chip biscuit: one of Freddie’s favourites, the ones he so rarely had in the middle of a season. Freddie went quiet, suddenly thinking it rude to complain when Jim was putting in so much time and effort for him. “You didn’t have to do that, darling.” He said shyly.

 

Jim smiled, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head. “I wanted to.” He promised, letting Freddie pick up the plate as he carried him back into the lounge.

 

Freddie sat opposite him this time, feet in his lap, plate balanced on his knees so that they could share. He glanced at Jim curiously, looking away every time he was caught, giggling again when Jim started staring at him playfully. “What?” He asked, jokingly defensive.

 

“You keep looking at me and I can’t work out why.” Jim teased and Freddie leaned forward and fed him a strawberry, smiling to himself.

 

Freddie kept quiet for a few moments, letting Jim feed him in return, before biting his lip. “Do you like looking after me?” He asked shyly.

 

Jim wasn’t expecting the question - maybe he thought he’d been more discreet, or that Freddie would be less bothered than he imagined. His cheeks flushed then: a rarity, something Freddie managed to coax from him far too often. “Yeah.” He admitted finally, not quite managing to meet Freddie’s eyes.

 

“Really?” Freddie sounded so surprised, but on looking at him, Jim felt as though Freddie were looking at the whole galaxy; his expression was pure, unadulterated awe.

 

Jim nodded again, calmed by Freddie’s expression. “Why?”

 

“I always thought I was a burden on you.” Jim reached for his hand, and Freddie took one finger again, reminiscent of earlier. “I- I thought you hated it.”

 

He smiled suddenly. “I like it when you look after me.”

 

Jim’s laugh was short but sweet: Freddie felt like home, acceptance and love. “It took me a really long time to decide who I was.” He admitted, running his thumb over Freddie’s. “But over the last three months, I’ve just been so happy with you-”

 

He stopped talking when Freddie started giggling again, trying to hide it behind a pillow. “What?” Jim asked, but he was laughing again. “God, you’re so giggly tonight!”

 

Freddie looked up at him daringly, grinning behind the protection of his pillow. “You say three like tree.” He teased.

 

“Oh, you-” Jim put the plate on the table and jumped on him, a messy kiss gilded with the giggles of Christmas Eve, of joy shared between two deserving people.

 

The cookie was shared, much later, and they kissed the taste of chocolate from each other’s lips.

 

 

_ A ballerina, you must have seen her, dancing in the sand. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know the song then you're my best friend. If you don't - look up the words, because it is the perfect song for these two idiots.


	58. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day is all about fun, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't proof-read because it's nearly 11pm and it's taken four days to write. This is the longest fluorescent chapter to date (5000 words!) and it does contain smut (nothing kinky - more focused on pleasure and recovery and discovering each other!) - please beware if that is not something you want to read (read up until they go into the bedroom and then stop).

Jim sometimes wondered if he was ever in the same space as Freddie without touching him in some way. They held hands, played with hair, rested fingers on thighs and waists and arms, leaned heads on shoulders, forever playing a game of who could squeeze the closest. Freddie usually won - being smaller, he was able to plant himself in Jim’s lap, settling them both there for the rest of the evening. There wasn’t enough room on the furniture for the four of them to sit, let alone with the addition of Kash and Jim, and so the others were secretly glad of Freddie’s tendency to prefer to sit on people instead of beside them.

 

Even though they complained, they appreciated the extra wriggle room.

 

Jim had woken him up that morning with a kiss on the nose, far too fucking early for Freddie’s liking when it was the only chance of a lie in he had for the rest of the season. He’d laughed when Freddie had grumbled, kissing over his face until he’d begrudgingly started to smile, justifying it with _you don’t understand, sweetheart, it’s Christmas! The whole point is to get up too early, drink too much and then fall asleep after lunch._

 

After a pause, Jim had murmured, voice soft just to check, “This is your first Christmas, isn’t it?”. And Freddie’s cheeks had coloured, and he wasn’t entirely sure why; something in the statement, the softness of his voice, the way he’d brushed Freddie’s hair from his eyes, made him feel about six years old. All the innocence that he’d lost over those months, months of being battle-hardened and spiteful towards the world, seemed to come back to him when they met eyes.

 

Maybe Freddie had kissed him for longer than was strictly necessary, but Jim couldn’t find it in himself to complain.

 

He’d landed in the lounge, stretched out across Jim’s lap, those strong arms tight around his waist while he wriggled to get comfortable. Kash had handed him a drink, and he regarded it curiously, shooting her a quizzical look.

 

“Don’t ask me.” Kash sipped her own, sitting next to them on the sofa and tucking her feet up. “Roger made it. Apparently it’s an English custom we didn’t know about.”

 

“Buck’s fizz.” Roger put his glass down on the table and grabbed the pile of cards on the side, handing them out. With each one he gained, Freddie’s smile grew a little wider. He tasted his drink, and to him it tasted like sparkles - clean, crisp, sweet and yet with a tang.

 

“What’s it made from?” He asked curiously as he took a large, red envelope from Roger, barely containing himself when he saw that it was marked with the stamp of the Royal Opera House.

 

“A little bit of orange juice and a lot of champagne.” Roger smiled as Freddie sipped again. “Welcome to England, where it’s customary to be drunk by midday on Christmas. Adding orange juice to it makes us feel morally better about drinking at eight in the morning.” John laughed, and Brian elbowed him playfully.

 

Freddie put down his glass and tore open the envelope excitedly. Inside, three envelopes, as seemed to be the standard: two handwritten, one printed. The printed one was a standard Christmas card, signed from the all the teachers - Freddie smiled at Olga’s little note.

 

_Have a good Christmas, my little superstar! Don’t work too hard!_

 

Jim chuckled as he read it over his shoulder and pressed a kiss to the joint between his neck and his shoulder. “What’s that one?” He pointed to an envelope in the same writing.

 

_We felt it best to apologise to you in writing about our failure to properly assess Mr. Prenter’s suitability, and then for ignoring when you raised an issue. We would like to inform you that we have passed the appropriate CCTV footage to the police, and we have suspended Mr. Prenter from all further duties with us at the Royal. He has also been suspended from the National._

 

Freddie’s smile was inalienable and Jim squeezed him tightly. “You did it.” He murmured against Freddie’s cheek. “He’s gone, sweetheart, you’re safe!”

 

Kash glanced up from her own letter and smiled. “What is it?” She asked excitedly.

 

“Paul’s been suspended.” Freddie said shyly, trying to suppress his grin.

 

“Thank fuck!” Roger replied; the room burst into a cacophony of comments on Paul, and none were positive.

 

“What’s the other envelope?” Jim asked curiously, letting Freddie lean back against his chest, coming further into a cuddle. Freddie opened it, fingers trembling slightly with nervous excitement. Two pieces of paper sat inside, each embossed in gold pen.

 

_Further to our examination into staff conduct, we would like to offer you the role of Rudolph in The Royal Ballet’s production of Mayerling for fourteen performances between the second and the fourteenth of January._

 

_Congratulations! The Royal Ballet would love to offer you a permanent position at the level of: Principal._

 

Freddie covered his mouth, hiding the paper immediately as though it would change as soon as someone else looked upon it. His hands trembled violently, and he felt almost as though he would burst into tears at the smallest thing; he was almost in shock.

 

They wanted him as a principal.

 

“Freddie?” He looked up to meet John’s eyes, looking something like a deer in the headlights in that moment. “Is everything okay?”

 

Jim focused in on him instantly. “Sweetheart?” He asked softly. “Freddie, what did it say?”

 

“I got Rudolph.” Freddie whispered; all those tears and fears over not getting the role instantaneously faded into the background.

 

Jim hugged him fiercely as Freddie started laughing. They clung to each other, two halves of the perfect whole, until Freddie pulled back a little. “And-” His cheeks were painted with the most gorgeous glow. “And they want me to be a principal.”

 

“That’s incredible!” Jim pulled him in close again, pressing a kiss to his lips with a laugh. “Freddie, that’s amazing!”

 

“You’re gonna be a principal!” John grinned over at them. “Fucking hell, Fred, look at you go.”

 

Freddie felt as though he were shining, dizzy with happiness. “I guess that makes my present for you even better.” Jim chuckled and kissed him again. He grabbed the wrapped parcel from the table and thrust it quickly into Freddie’s hands.

 

He tore it open excitedly, stopping suddenly when he saw baby blue satin, soft against his fingertips. “You didn’t.” He said softly, completely aghast. “You bought me the blue Karsavinas?”

 

Jim smiled shyly. “I know they’re your favourites. I had the ribbons sewn on and everything, gives you less work to do.”

 

Freddie pulled them out, admiring them momentarily before realising there was more. “You bought the split-soles too?” He asked softly; shoes that matched were rare, shoes that were genuinely comfortable were an even bigger rarity.

 

“You deserve them.” Jim kissed him soft. “Besides, they’ll last longer than the pointe shoes.”

 

Freddie kissed him excitedly, cupping his cheeks in both hands and grinning widely. “You have to have mine, too.” He gave him the tiny wrapped box, suddenly aware of how small it seemed. “It’s not much-” He suddenly tried to justify himself. “If I’d have known, I would’ve gotten you more-”

 

Jim carefully unpeeled the golden wrapping paper before popping open the little box. “Freddie-” He murmured softly as his eyes met gold, ruby, not identical but the perfect sister for Freddie’s. Freddie carefully put it on Jim’s right hand, relaxed by his reaction. “Oh, Fred, it’s beautiful!”

 

“Right hand, because then when we hold hands they’re next to each other.” Freddie’s voice was so quiet in the bustle of the room.

 

Jim cupped his cheek and Freddie grinned at the way the cold metal bit into his skin. He crawled into his lap as he kissed him again, but this time he didn’t pull back.

 

They kissed lazily for a long time, Freddie’s arms around Jim’s neck and Jim’s hands pressed to Freddie’s cheeks. Freddie bit playfully at his lower lip, pulling it into his mouth and kissing it deeply. Jim groaned, left hand grabbing onto his waist, letting himself enjoy the feeling.

 

“If you take this much further then it’ll only be suitable for the bedroom.” Roger commented dryly, but Freddie could hear the smile in his voice. “In front of your sister, Mr. Mercury, shame on you.” He joked.

 

Freddie stood up abruptly and smirked to himself. “I guess we’ll see you in a little while, then.” He said boldly, dragging Jim upstairs and leaving shocked faces in his wake.

 

He giggled as he landed on the bed, wrapping his arms around Jim’s neck to pull him down. Jim laughed along with him, landing on his palms so that he didn’t crush him accidentally. “Roger is such a bastard.” Freddie murmured against his lips, hands slipping under Jim’s shirt.

 

Jim grinned. “He is. We can just stay up here for a little while and let their imaginations run wild, if you want.” He offered, not wanting to push Freddie into anything. He was perfectly happy to make do with a little time for the two of them, some hot and lascivious kisses shared between them, adding fuel to the fire for when he got a moment alone.

 

Freddie bit at his lower lip, smiling into the kiss. Jim was so sweet, so considerate, but it was time. “I want more.” He whispered, running his fingers over his lover’s chest.

 

Jim sat back a little, taking in the sight of his boyfriend below him, flushed and gorgeous. It felt like such a special moment, as though the two men were in a trance for a brief time. “Are you sure?” He asked softly, interlinking their fingers; his right hand, Freddie’s left. Two rubies glinted back at him, and he smiled. “I don’t want to pressure you into it.”

 

“I’m sure.” Freddie cupped his cheek and kissed him again. “I trust you.”

 

“Okay.” A fire blossomed inside Jim, listening to those words. “But I want you to talk to me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.” He stroked his thumb over his lover’s cheek. “Tell me what feels bad, and what feels good. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

 

“I promise.” Freddie tugged him closer and Jim moved in between Freddie’s legs, thigh pressed to his crotch. “I want-” He blushed so easily, and it was addictive; Jim pressed a hot kiss to his throat, watching as he tilted his head back in response. “I want you to fuck me, darling.”

 

Jim groaned, kissing again at the spot that drove Freddie to insanity. They were both so far gone already, and they were still fully clothed. “You want to bottom?” He checked, trying not to misinterpret anything.

 

“Yeah.” Freddie sounded breathless as Jim kissed back up to his lips.

 

“Have you done it before? Properly?” He asked softly; he knew of Freddie’s history, clubs and Paul, but he wanted to know everything.

 

“Not properly.” Jim kissed the words from his lips. Freddie had always topped in clubs, never choosing men that reminded him of Paul, and he’d only ever bottomed when he hadn't given consent. He wanted to erase that now, wanted to erase his fear of his own body.

 

“Your first time.” Jim murmured, and _fuck-_ Freddie loved the way he managed to twist everything on its head so that he sounded like the sweetest, most innocent man in the whole of London. He made him sound pure, clean, inexperienced, just how he wanted to be. “I’ll make you feel so good, baby doll.”

 

His voice was rough, and Freddie wondered if he’d even noticed the new pet name, but he wanted to hear that voice again and again for the rest of time. “I trust you.” He repeated, hands sliding back under Jim’s shirt to tug it over his head. “I want to see you.” His voice softened, the perfect counterpart to his lover’s.

 

Jim sat back and stripped off his shirt quickly, throwing it off the bed to the side of them. “You’re so beautiful.” He murmured as he helped Freddie take off his. It wasn’t the first time that he would see Freddie naked, but it was the first time that he was allowed to look.

 

As Freddie lay back down, Jim’s thigh rocked against him and he let out the sweetest little whimper, pushing up into the friction. Jim kissed him again, pulling him up until he was sat in his lap. He groaned as Freddie rocked downwards again, wrapping his arms around Jim’s neck and placing a trail of hot kisses along his collarbone.

 

“Fuck…” Freddie murmured into his skin as Jim’s hands found his ass, encouraging him to rock down harder. He watched as Freddie’s brow furrowed, lost in the man in front of him, and thrust his hips to match; one of Freddie’s hands trailed down uncertainly, hesitating for a moment before he cupped Jim through his sweatpants.

 

“Freddie-” Jim gasped at the friction, a wave of pleasure crashing over his head. It had been so long, the best part of three months, since his last time with another man, and Freddie was driving him crazy. He let his fingers rest on the waistband of Freddie’s pajama pants, smiling momentarily to himself about their when and where, before untying them quickly. “Is this okay?” He checked.

 

Freddie lifted his hips a little so that Jim could get them off. “Please.” His voice was a little whimper, feeling so safe and so respected in Jim’s arms. “Please, gorgeous.”

 

Jim hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and stopped to check again. “How about that, baby doll?”

 

Freddie nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, please-” He let Jim strip him completely before nervously meeting his eyes. Jim looked so in awe, as though Freddie were a vintage painting or a Grecian bust, tight muscles carved in smooth marble; his expression calmed Freddie immediately.

 

Jim carefully pushed him back among the pillows and Freddie laughed, dragging him into another kiss. He let his hands roam over Freddie’s bare skin, feeling how soft he was, how smooth; he’d never had a man beneath him so unbelievably feminine, and he couldn’t deny that he loved it. “It never occured to me that you’d shave.” He laughed against Freddie’s lips.

 

“Have you seen those shorts?” Freddie joked, grabbing Jim’s ass playfully.

 

Jim sat back between his legs, trailing his lips down Freddie’s neck and chest. “Where’s your lube, baby doll?” He asked softly.

 

Freddie grabbed an unopened bottle from the bedside table and Jim smiled. The fact that Freddie had gone out and bought it strangely calmed him; maybe he’d been thinking about it for a while too. “Shall we get you stretched out, sweetheart?” He questioned, pressing a kiss to the inside of Freddie’s thigh. “Nice and opened up?”

 

The sound of his voice, rough with arousal, and the sheer filth of his words made Freddie’s cock jump; however, he’d also never felt so loved and respected in his life. “Please.” Freddie whispered, spreading his legs and biting his lip. A little doubt remained in the back of his mind, that Jim would assume that he’d done this before, even after their conversation; he didn’t want to call it off because it hurt.

 

“I’ll go slow.” Jim said softly, pressing a kiss to the base of Freddie’s hard cock. “I’ll take care of you, baby doll. Tell me to stop if you change your mind.”

 

Freddie gasped, back arching off the bed as Jim’s lips found the head of his cock, clever tongue rubbing over his sensitive skin and making him moan. He’d given his fair share of blowjobs, but he hadn’t had one in return; the sensation was like nothing he’d ever felt before- Jim’s mouth was so hot, so wet, tight around him-

 

He let out a high pitched moan as one lube-slick finger was pushed in to him carefully; there wasn’t much stretch, and he was still lost in the hot waves of pleasure coming from his cock. The pleasure made it much easier to deal with the strangeness of the sensation.

 

Jim hooked his finger suddenly and Freddie cried out, grabbing onto his own leg to keep it against his chest. “Jim-” He gasped as he sunk down further on his cock, arousal burning through his core. “Gorgeous- _fuck-”_ He moaned, relaxing without even realising.

 

The second finger had Freddie arching off the bed as it hit his prostate, two fingers rubbing those sensitive nerves as Jim bobbed his head. “So good-” Freddie was panting as he bucked his hips up into Jim’s mouth before grinding down on his fingers. “Ah- _fuck-_ so fucking good-” He tangled a hand in Jim’s hair.

 

He scissored his fingers as Freddie whimpered gorgeously, so lost in the throes of his pleasure. He rolled his hips back against Jim’s hand, moaning as they pressed against those nerves again. Any nervousness had dissipated into pure pleasure, and Freddie was in heaven.

 

He whined a little with the stretch of the third finger, trying to force his body to relax. In response, Jim took him down to the base of his cock, linking his free hand with Freddie’s and squeezing lightly. He moaned as all three fingers found his prostate again; his mouth hung open at how good it felt, at how quickly pain became pleasure, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

 

Jim was drunk on how fucking loud Freddie was: he was vaguely aware of the other four downstairs, but he loved how vocal he was, how he’d shout at the ceiling when he felt good.

 

He sat up for a moment, still fucking him with his fingers, and moaned at the sight before him. He’d never considered how malleable Freddie was, easy to bend, but he was practically folded in half, face tilted to the side and pressed against the pillow to try to muffle his constant moans. His brow was creased from where he’d shut his eyes tightly, face the perfect picture of pleasure.

 

His eyes opened slowly, struggling against the pleasure that weighed them down, and he sent Jim a dizzy smile. In response, Jim pressed his fingers back up against his prostate, taking a thrill from how easy it was to make him moan. “How’s that, baby?” He asked, leaning over to kiss him again; maybe he was teasing, just wanting to hear more and more from Freddie’s lips.

 

Freddie gasped against his lips, cock jumping against his stomach. Jim noted how even now, he pointed his toes as pleasure rocketed through him; a dim fantasy of fucking him in those pointe shoes sparked in the back of his mind. “It’s so good.” He threaded his fingers in Jim’s hair and tugged in earnest. _“Fuck-_ so good, so _fucking_ good- _”_ He rocked his hips back against Jim’s hand. “Oh, darling, _please_ -” He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for, but he needed something else he went crazy.

 

Jim wondered how loud he’d be on his cock if he was like this just with fingers. “Want to sit on my lap, baby doll?” He asked softly, stroking a hand through his hair as Freddie moaned weakly against his lips.

 

A whine escaped Freddie’s lips as those fingers disappeared, the tendrils of heat in his core aching for more. He watched, in raptures, as Jim kicked off his sweatpants and boxers before drawing him closer again, kissing him sweetly for a few seconds.

 

The soft kiss seemed to contradict everything that they were doing, but it was strangely reassuring; it tethered Freddie back to Jim before any doubts had the opportunity to manifest themselves. He relaxed into it, climbing into Jim’s lap instinctively just to be as close as possible. Jim could feel any tension melt from his body as hands rested against his waist.

 

“Still sure?” Jim checked once more, pressing a soft kiss to his lower lip.

 

Freddie felt dizzy with everything; letting himself feel good felt like the last stage in rediscovering who he was, what he enjoyed, what it was okay to enjoy. He was drunk on how slow and careful Jim was, how well he worked to make him feel so good. “I’m sure.” He promised, wrapping his arms around Jim’s neck. “I haven’t done it like this before.” He said shyly and Jim smiled.

 

“Take it slow.” He rested his hands against Freddie’s waist, holding him carefully. “Find what you like.” He kissed him again as he leaned back against the headboard of their bed. “Want me to wear a condom, sweetheart?” He made his grip a little firmer, stopping Freddie from lowering himself right away.

 

“That’ll make it less fun for you.” He said softly, rocking his hips lightly to get some friction against his aching cock. In the perfect world, Freddie would say yes; to still feel clean afterwards would quell many of the worries. This wasn’t a perfect world, though, and he knew he had to make sacrifices.

 

Jim wondered how many people had fed him lies over the years just to justify their own behaviour. “It doesn’t change anything for me.” Jim cupped his cheek, brought his head up so that they were eye-to-eye. “It’s all about how you feel.”

 

Freddie’s blush was addictive, suffused across his cheeks and down his chest. He was quiet for a long moment, a long enough moment for Jim to draw a whimper from him with a clever finger against his nipple; Jim felt as though the last barrier between them, the last of Freddie’s nerves, was being beaten down. “I’d like that.” He said after a while, smiling shyly.

 

Jim grabbed one from the nightstand drawer and Freddie smiled. “Let me do that.” He whispered in Jim’s ear, wrapping a hand around his cock and moaning at how hot, hard and heavy he was in his hand. “Thank you, darling.”

 

Maybe his words came out a little weaker as Freddie used a tight hand to roll the condom on and to lube up his cock, but they still produced a smile. “Never be afraid to ask.”

 

Freddie grinned and lined himself up, still riding high on the adrenaline of defeating demons and his good news. “Slow.” Jim reminded him, hands tight on his waist as he started to lower himself.

 

The stretch was more than he anticipated, and Freddie stopped for a moment with a whimper on his lips. Jim kissed him softly, held his own hips down fiercely. “You’re doing so well, baby doll.” The roughness in his voice was back again.

 

He let out short little breaths as he slowly lowered himself the rest of the way down, tilting his head back as a mix of _stretch-burn-pleasure-pain_ tore through his spine. Jim wrapped a hand around his cock and Freddie gasped at the welcome distraction, the heat starting to burn again all too quickly.

 

He thrust his hips forward into Jim’s fist and cried out as his cock hit his prostate, the pleasure exploding through his body and drowning out the majority of the discomfort. He placed his hands on Jim’s shoulders, letting himself just rock there for a few moments, feeling the way that pleasure shot through his legs and his core with each moment. His head lolled forward, hair in his face as he started to pant out the sweetest little _ah-ah-ah!_ with each movement.

 

Fucking Freddie was an out of body experience: Jim let his head fall back against the headboard as he sunk down again and again, small shallow thrusts that gave him little respite from the irresistible heat of Freddie’s body. He moaned obscenely as Freddie clenched around him, trying to keep his hips down to keep things slow.

 

“Gorgeous- Jim-” Freddie moaned as he did his best to sit up, starting to rise a little higher. The angle was so easy, and Jim’s cock found his sweet spot with each thrust, punching the most beautiful of little moans from the back of his throat, pleasured and wanton.

 

Jim couldn’t decide where to settle his hands; he loved teasing over a nipple just to hear his voice grow higher, grabbing his waist to keep him close, running his hands over the smooth skin on his thighs and ass. “You’re so good-” Jim squeezed the skin on the inside of his thigh. “I love you so much-” His words trailed off with a gasp on an especially hard thrust.

 

Freddie tried to move faster, moaning as the angle changed ever-so-slightly. “So good-” He echoed, cock throbbing with each thrust now, hot and heavy and untouched. “Love you-” He stopped for a moment as hands grabbed his waist more insistently.

 

He opened his eyes as he felt Jim move his legs, digging his heels into the bed and then helping him back into his rhythm. “Lean back for me.” Jim pushed at Freddie’s arms a little, his smile euphoric. “Hands on my thighs- good boy-” He moaned at how easy Freddie was to move.

 

Flushed spots appeared on Freddie’s cheeks as the heat grew more insistent. The new position was a little more strain on his thighs, but it was worth it immediately as Jim thrusted hard into his prostate. He cried out, nails digging into his skin, fighting to keep his eyes open to watch Jim’s face.

 

It felt so good to be able to move freely now: with each thrust Jim drew closer to his climax, closer to giving in to the desire that consumed his whole being. “That feel good, baby doll?” He asked, rubbing a thumb across his nipple again.

 

Freddie was panting, moaning loudly with each breath, head thrown back as he fucked himself on Jim’s cock, chasing his own pleasure. “It’s so good-” He promised breathlessly. “So- _fuck!_ \- so fucking good, _please-_ ” He keened right at the back of his throat, words getting lost as Jim thrusted up again. “Right _there-_ ” His voice cracked. “ _Right there_ , please, please, _please-_ ” He whimpered gorgeously and Jim angled his hips again.

 

Freddie clenched down on him and suddenly he was about to lose it. He wrapped a hand around Freddie’s cock and thrusted up again, head tilting back as he struggled to breathe. “Baby doll-” He gasped, other hand helping Freddie move quickly. “Baby, I can’t last, you’re too good-” He moaned out.

 

“I’m gonna-” Freddie cried out, back arching beautifully as the clever hand quickened around his cock, cold ring pressed to his sensitive skin. “I can’t- I’m gonna-” He gasped, thrusting into his hand and then back onto his cock.

 

“Come for me.” Jim’s voice was thin as he tried desperately not to come first. “Come on, baby doll, I want to see you- show me-”

 

Freddie moaned out, long and loud, grinding Jim’s cock against his spot before streaking their chests with sticky white. His world faded to a golden glow around the edges, the light from the fairy lights cutting through the haze as he floated through the most incredible pleasure he’d ever experienced.

 

Jim thrust once more before he was coming, holding onto Freddie’s hip so tightly as he clenched. Each time it made Jim moan, the friction too much for his spent cock but still feeling so good. He lay his head back against the headboard, gasping for breath, one hand coming up to cup Freddie’s cheek.

 

Freddie’s smile could best be described as sated; satisfied, pleasured, a little sleepy around the edges. His eyelids drooped a little as he recovered, his thighs twitching with the exertion and the aftershocks. “Come here, sweetheart.” Jim let go of his grip on Freddie’s hip, opening his arms instead to draw him into a hug and to press a kiss to the top of his head. “I love you so much.”

 

Jim’s arms felt so good around him, warm and tight and safe and letting him bask in the glow of his orgasm. “Love you too.” He murmured, settling down comfortably as Jim slipped out.

 

Jim chuckled a little and carefully lay him on his side. “I’ll be back in two seconds. I’m going to clean you up.” He smiled. He knew that Freddie liked to be clean, and this was one of the times that it was his responsibility to make sure that he was.

 

He discarded the condom quickly and grabbed a cloth, running it under the warm tap and then wringing out the excess water. He cleaned off his chest first before walking back into the bedroom, rolling Freddie over carefully and cleaning over his legs, chest and stomach. The warmth of the cloth felt good against Freddie’s skin and he smiled, meeting Jim’s eyes with a sleep-heavy smile.

 

Jim quickly put the cloth in the laundry hamper before he climbed back into the bed beside him, drawing him close to his chest again and smiling. “How are you doing?” He asked softly; before he could rest, he wanted to know that Freddie was doing okay.

 

“I’m so good.” Freddie wrapped an arm around his waist. “I thought it would be scarier than it was. I’m glad I trusted you.” He gave Jim a giddy smile. “I’m sleepy.”

 

“Me too.” Jim pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “It’s still pretty early. We can get a nap in before lunch.”

 

Freddie settled back down, pressed a lazy kiss to the skin of his chest, and closed his eyes. “Sounds perfect to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a Christmas chapter part B coming - I couldn't get everything in this chapter and I wanted to get another upload in for you guys!


	59. Marriage Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last wall comes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have loved for this to be a fluffy chapter, but I also want to be true to the nature of trauma - unfortunately, it's not realistic that Freddie would just be able to bounce into a 'normal' sexual relationship without any problems. However, I promise that you'll get Christmas part three (excessive, right?) which is literally just solid fluff!

_ Pain was the first thing that he noticed. _

 

It felt like deja vu to Freddie, waking up beside somebody he loved with pain suffusing its way through his ass and thighs. His mind, seized in a momentary panic, forgot what had happened; all he could think of was his past experiences of what that pain meant.

 

He sat up quickly, vaguely aware of the ragged, terrified gasps that left his lips.  _ Not again. Not him too. _

 

An arm wrapped around his waist sleepily, tugging him back into the bed. Freddie closed his eyes tightly, not even realising that he was thrashing to get away until his hand smacked against Jim’s nose. His breathing was wrecked, panicked, every survival instinct that he’d ever had kicking in until-

 

“Baby doll?” Jim’s voice was rough, now sated with sleep as well as sex. A memory flashed through his mind.

 

_ The pleasure rocketed through his body, making him moan out happily; he smiled at the ceiling as another I love you erupted amongst rough gasps. _

 

“Freddie?” Jim propped himself up on one elbow, fingers gently touching Freddie’s, and the air burned in his lungs. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” He linked their hands as he sat up properly, wrapping his other arm around his shoulders.

 

The memories were all muddled in his head, his logical brain conflicting with entrenched betrayal at the hands of his previous love.

 

_ Your body wanted me so badly, baby. How many times did you make a mess because of me, hm? You liked it rough. _

 

Freddie whimpered a little, curling in on himself, and Jim pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Hey, love, you’re okay.” He said gently. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. Deep breaths.” And this had to be more of what Jim had been anticipating for their first time together, talking Freddie down from overwhelming fear at the hands of his past experiences. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep breathing for me.”

 

_ The stretch was more than he anticipated, and Freddie stopped for a moment with a whimper on his lips. Jim kissed him softly, held his own hips down fiercely. “You’re doing so well, baby doll.” _

 

That pain didn’t have to be at the hands of an abuser. 

 

His face flooded with embarrassment; how could he ever think that Jim would act in that way? He opened his eyes slowly, crawled further into Jim’s arms, into that warmth and safety and security that he craved, sought forever, apologetic to his core. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. Jim held him closely, rocking him slowly, lulling him into the calm that they found together.

 

“Don’t be sorry. It’s a big thing, sweetheart.” Jim said softly. He trailed one hand through Freddie’s hair, feeling as those breaths slowly became more regular. They sat together for a long while before Freddie spoke again.

 

“It was the ache.” Freddie surprised himself with how honest he was being. He could hear the words of his therapist at the back of his mind;  _ honesty will be the most important thing between you and your partner.  _ “I assumed the worst.” He admitted; admitting to the way that his mind worked was the easiest way to start to challenge it. “My therapist said it might happen.”

 

Jim lay back against the headboard, tucked the blanket around them both; Freddie was shivering. “You’re okay.” He promised, pressing the gentlest kiss to his forehead. “Can you remember what happened?”

 

He nodded, rested his head against Jim’s shoulder, breathing steadily to calm his racing heart. “I remember all of it.” He was so embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Jim, it was just when I woke up like that and I didn’t remember for a second and-”

 

He was quietened by Jim carefully running his knuckles over Freddie’s cheekbone and up onto his temple, massaging away his tense expression. He felt as though there was something deeper, something else that was troubling him that he couldn’t quite find the words for. “Do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?” He asked gently.

 

Sometimes Freddie was so vocal, needing to talk about it over and over again just to rinse his system of the thoughts. Every little story made Jim’s heart ache, but he would never deny him a listening ear: Freddie wanted to open up to him, and that was one of the biggest privileges of them all. Sometimes, however, he would go quiet, preferring to try to squash them down in his own mind, preferring to repress them when he wasn’t ready for Jim to know.

 

“Yes.” He replied after a little while. “I just feel so-” He suddenly shook his head. “I shouldn’t, it’s Christmas. I don’t want to spoil your day. You probably don’t even have the time to listen.” The excuses came out, half-formed thoughts and concerns that hadn’t been followed through to their logical conclusions.

 

“Sweetheart.” Jim hooked a finger under his chin, carefully pulling until Freddie was looking him in the eye. “I always have time to listen to you. Anything you want to tell me, any time of day. I promise.”

 

Freddie dropped his gaze, still embarrassed. He didn’t deserve someone like this. The thought ate at his core, intensified his feelings; he bit at his lower lip as it started to tremble. “I don’t deserve you.” His voice came out quiet, a soft tremble.

 

Jim pulled him even closer, both arms now tight around him. “Why do you think that?”

 

Freddie swallowed hard. “I feel so guilty.” He whispered. “If I hadn’t whored myself out like I did, you could’ve fallen in love with someone normal, someone who made you really happy and you could have normal sex with and you wouldn’t have to put up with all my shit.” Jim held his hand gently, stroking his knuckles.

 

“I feel so guilty that I let him use me. I didn’t even try and push him off, and he knows that.” He dug his nails hard into his palm. “If I’d fought back then you wouldn’t have to be so careful with me. You wouldn’t have to pretend to enjoy sex with someone who’s already been ruined.”

 

Jim opened his mouth to speak but Freddie shook his head again. “I am ruined. I let him ruin me. I let him use me for his own pleasure.” He covered his face with his hands. “It’s all I’m any good for.”

 

“Freddie…” Jim said softly, gently stroking his hair. “Sweetheart, it’s okay.”

 

“I feel guilty for wanting to have sex with you.” Freddie’s voice was thick with tears. “I’m not supposed to want sex. I’m not even a proper victim.” He sniffed hard. “Maybe it wasn’t rape. Maybe he was right.” He burst into tears then, and Jim hugged him fiercely. “I can’t even do that right!”

 

Freddie’s voice was nearly hysterical. “I wish you’d find someone else!” The admission weighed heavy on his chest. “I wish you’d never bought me that drink. I wish that I’d stayed with Paul.” A sob escaped from the back of his throat. “Then you could find somebody who’d love you better than I can and I’d be dead and then nothing would hurt and everybody would be happy.”

 

He cried for a long time, huddled in the safety of Jim’s arms; he didn’t understand why Jim was still there, why he hadn’t hit him and then left. “You think I’m so sweet and innocent and inexperienced and I wish I was, but I’m not. I’m ruined. You deserve better than me.” He said in a quiet voice, slowly moving away from Jim before the extent of his own words hit him.

 

He’d admitted that he wanted to go back to Paul.

 

He turned back towards Jim, swallowed hard, and closed his eyes; Jim could see the muscles behind his eyelids trembling. He didn’t understand, looking at Freddie’s tearstained face, until he realised.

 

He was waiting to be hit. That’s how he’d been taught to diffuse situations.

 

_ “You don’t speak to your mother like that!” Freddie was so frightened; he hadn’t realised that that was what that English word had meant. It was what all the boys at school had said in the playground. _

 

_ “Come here.” He swallowed hard, head bowed, and walked to his father. His six-year-old legs trembled beneath him. “Head up. Close your eyes.” _

 

_ He followed each command immediately, his stomach twisting with fear. He fell back as the hand collided with his cheek, so much anger and authority coming from the pain that flared through his face. _

 

_ Freddie burst into tears and curled up on the floor. Once their father had left, Kash came and lay with him. _

 

“Freddie-” Jim crawled closer to him.

 

_ “And so you thought you could just lie about it to me?” _

 

_ He didn’t know how to control the situation; his ballet bag hung over his shoulder, the motif for his destruction. “Mama and I, we thought-” _

 

_ “I know about your mother.” His father was angrier than he’d ever heard. “I’ll deal with her later. Right now, I’m dealing with you.” _

 

_ His hands shook as he put his bag on the floor and approached his father obediently. It was a well-known punishment, the sting to be anticipated each time he failed or lied or spoke out of turn. He’d become accustomed to it, the wave of pain that came with a slap to the right cheek, the familiar tender bruising under his eye. _

 

_ He swallowed hard as he tilted his head up and closed his eyes, trying his well-practiced trick of fading into that story in the back of his head, the one where he was a successful principal in London with a long-term boyfriend and people that considered him talented.  _

 

_ The wind was knocked out of him as the fist collided with the soft part of his stomach, just below his ribs; he fell backwards with a cry. He turned over quickly, trying to shield himself from any more, and didn’t realise that he’d been sick until the bile bit at the back of his throat. _

 

_ “Disgusting.” The word made him burn with shame. “Clean up after yourself. I’m not having your mother use this room in this state.” _

 

_ Kash watched him from the top of the stairs and brought him a glass of water when his father had returned to the lounge. He’d learned that baking soda would remove sick from the carpet. _

 

“Freddie, sweetheart-” Jim was taken aback by his inability to calm Freddie; the boy flinched from his touch as he carefully touched his cheek.

 

_ Freddie met his eyes with a hand tugging his hair sharply back; nobody had ever laid a finger on him like his father before. He hadn’t meant to break his ankle, but the angle had been awkward when he’d landed. “I’m sorry.” He choked out. _

 

_ “You’re sorry?” The hand grew tighter, tearing hairs from his scalp. “Well, that’s all well and fucking good, then. Sorry isn’t going to pay the bills when you lose your loan, Freddie. Sorry isn’t going to buy us food. Sorry isn’t going to keep the roof over our head when you lose your scholarship from your own fucking carelessness.” _

 

_ The thoughts had never even occurred to Freddie, but the anxiety tore its way through him. His visa was dependent on his scholarship, and his scholarship meant a loan for him to study in London. An injury might mean the loss of his scholarship if it was too bad, if he couldn’t dance anymore; they’d tell the Home Office, and he’d lose his visa. They’d send him back to Zanzibar. _

 

_ Freddie whimpered. “I didn’t realise.” His said quietly. _

 

_ “No, of course you didn’t. You don’t think about anything unless I point it out to you.” _

 

_ He’d lost his grip on the situation, and the pain was making him feel dizzy. A little more pain would be worth it if he let go. Freddie tilted his head up, closing his eyes, biting the insides of his cheeks. _

 

_ A hand collided with his face, hard, and this time there was no fantasy to hide in. He was in London. He wasn’t special. Nobody wanted him as principal. He never seemed to be good enough for his boyfriend. _

 

_ It collided again, and the world faded from behind his eyes for a moment as he hit the floor. _

 

_ He lay there alone. _

 

Jim wrapped his arms tight around Freddie, burying his face in his hair as tears pricked as his throat. “Freddie, listen to me-” His voice was thick. “Darling, I promise that I will never hit you. I’m never going to make you hurt like that. I’m never going to hurt you.”

 

Freddie was crying again, suddenly clutching back onto Jim. “Why do you stay?” He asked tearfully. “You need to go and be happy, you’ve gotten what you wanted, it’s okay-” The words came rushing out again. “I’ll do anything, just go, I don’t deserve you-”

 

“Freddie.” Jim’s voice came out firmer and Freddie looked up quickly. “Freddie, sweetheart-” His voice came out as a sigh as he wiped his lover’s eyes gently. “I stay because you’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. I stay because you’ve made me happier than anyone else in the whole world. I stay because you’re so incredible, you’re so strong, you’re so talented, you’re so beautiful. I stay because I love you, Freddie.”

 

He could feel Freddie’s breath even out a little. “I stay because one day I’m going to marry you, Freddie, and we’re going to have a little flat in Earl’s Court and we’re going to have a cat and you’re going to have an incredibly successful career and I want to be with you every step of the way.” He pressed his lips to Freddie’s knuckles from where his hands were balled into fists.

 

“I stay because I don’t mind your past, Freddie. You’re not ruined. You love me more than anyone else I’ve ever met, more than people who haven’t gone through half of what you have. You’re so sensitive, so loving and so caring.”

 

Freddie slowly uncurled his hands and Jim smoothed a thumb over his ring. “You never have to feel guilty about me. I wouldn’t mind if we never had sex again, sweetheart, so long as you were happy. I’d rather be celibate for the rest of my life and have you by my side than go back to that awful cycle of one night stands just to feel loved for an hour.”

 

Freddie looked up at him again, tears still clinging to his eyelashes. “You really mean it?”

 

“I really do.” Jim pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you, Freddie Mercury, so damn much.  I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life.” He pressed the gentlest kiss to Freddie’s lips. “Until death do us part.”

 

The laugh he got in response made his heart leap with happiness, even if it was a little damp with tears. “They’re pretty vows.” He said softly, wiping his eyes with his wrist like a child.

 

“They’re the Catholic marriage vows.” Jim smiled in return. “And one day I’ll say them to you properly, and I’ll accompany it with a pretty ring.”

 

He wouldn’t pretend that the guilt magically disappeared, but it subsided just a little. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 11k hits! That's crazy. Drop me a comment below if you're still reading (even if you're not one of my usual commenters - I love to hear from all of you!)


	60. Blankets and Baskets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to stop telling you that things are pure fluff when they're not pure fluff - the middle is sad but at least there's lots of hope!

The warm water felt good against his skin, soothing little tense muscles and rinsing the last of the stickiness away from the inside of his thighs. Better than that, though, were the warm fingers rinsing shampoo suds through his hair, looking after him so carefully, helping him find that inner calm in the cleanliness of his body.

 

Freddie was murmuring under his breath as Jim cleaned his hair carefully, eyes closed and lips moving ever so slightly; Jim couldn’t make out the first word that he was saying. However, the lull of his words were soothing, even slightly melodic, and Jim could feel the beauty of the language just from the soft murmur.

 

He went silent after only a little while, less than a minute, and Jim almost missed the sound. “What was that, my love?” He asked softly, massaging the conditioner through his hair.

 

Freddie smiled at the floor, cheeks tinged with a shy blush. Jim had been right: getting him clean was doing him the world of good. He didn’t regret anything that they’d done together, especially now considering that Jim was taking such good care of him; it was so easy to get lost and sink in the gentle feeling of warm hands, to compartmentalise this experience from his others.

 

This time, there was love. This time, there was someone who wanted to care for him, instead of leaving him to clean up after himself. 

 

“It was the Khshnaothra Ahurahe Mazdao.” He grabbed his body wash from the shower rack: he always smelled of Jim’s cologne, and now it was time for revenge by making his lover smell of marshmallows for the day. “Being clean and pure is a big thing in Zoroastrianism. It’s a prayer to be said at the start of purification.”

 

Jim had a strange love of hearing about faith from Freddie; it seemed a world away from the Catholicism that he’d been brought up with, a religion that he could no longer trust. “In Persian?” He asked curiously. “How many languages can you speak?”

 

“Middle Persian, just to be awkward.” Freddie smiled as he soaped over Jim’s shoulders. “Think of how confusing Middle English is, and then apply it to Persian. It’s something like that. Everyone just learns it and then learns the translation.” He laughed at his own admission. 

 

“I can speak six, give or take.” He washed down Jim’s chest, still giggling to himself. “Excessive, right? Persian is my first language, because it’s the language of Zoroastrianism and it’s what we spoke at home when I was little. We spoke Swahili when we were out in Zanzibar, and then I had to learn Hindi when I moved to India. I learned English, French and Arabic while I was at school.”

 

“Which is your favourite?” Jim dropped a kiss on his nose just to watch him smile. “Or do you not have one?”

 

“English, for sure.” He tilted his head back obediently so that Jim could wash the conditioner from his hair. “Because everyone knows at least some English. It’s the best language for actually communicating with people. Even when I was in India, we liked to speak English to each other when we could. It made us feel all sophisticated and grown up.” Freddie wrapped his arms around Jim’s neck to stop him from slipping over. “Even though they told us off when they found us using it instead of Hindi. We weren’t supposed to want to be English.” He grinned. “Joke’s on them, I guess.”

 

Jim laughed, one arm supporting the bend in Freddie’s lower back and the other running through his hair. “Now you’re an English national treasure.” He teased sweetly.

 

Freddie laughed. “How about you? What else can you speak?”

 

“Three, but the third is terrible, so I wouldn’t count it.” Jim carefully brought him back up to standing, but held him for a little while; he loved the feeling of Freddie in his arms. “Irish is my first language. That’s not that common, but I grew up in a rural part of Carlow, and so it was expected that we speak Irish at home, in the local shops, at church and at school. We learned English alongside it though, because Irish is a pointless language to know.” He grinned. “And then I learned terrible Latin alongside it at school, but I can barely remember a word of it.”

 

Freddie was very happy to settle in his arms for a while, the water running down his back and keeping him warm. “It never occured to me that you’d speak Irish. It never even occured to me that there was an Irish language.” He laughed.

 

“Ceapaim go bhfuil tú go hálainn agus is breá liom tú.” Jim said softly into his hair, a teasing smile dancing around his lips.

 

Freddie’s face lit up. “What does that mean?” He asked excitedly.

 

“I think you’re beautiful and I love you very much.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead and smiled at the way his eyes fluttered close. “Say something in Persian for me.”

 

“Men feker ma kenem shema shegufet aneguaz teran ferd zendh aset.” Freddie said sweetly, pressing a kiss to Jim’s lips. “That means I think you’re the most wonderful person alive.”

 

Jim cooed and cupped Freddie’s cheek. “I’m so lucky to have you, baby boy.” He said softly. “You’re like all my dreams came true.”

 

Freddie felt his cheeks warm again and he hugged Jim fiercely. He stood on his toes and buried his face in his neck, allowing himself to be lost in the safety and security of those arms. “I love you so much.”

 

Jim would never get over the way that Freddie would lift one foot when they kissed. He would never get over the feeling of that small body pressed to his, the power in those lean muscles, the love behind such beautiful eyes-

 

Freddie squeaked against his lips as he slipped on the wet floor of the shower, pulling Jim down with him. Jim immediately burst out laughing, hands running over his lover’s body. “Are you okay?” He asked softly, still laughing.

 

Freddie was giggling incessantly; he tugged Jim down for another kiss. “I’m fine.” He laughed. “Turns out that trying to go en pointe in the shower without the shoes is probably the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

 

Jim tugged him into his lap and kissed him again. “Fool.” He teased against Freddie’s lips. “I should probably get you dried off before you shrivel up like a raisin.” He grinned as Freddie’s fingertips stroked over his cheek.

 

“I like how you want to dry me off.” Freddie’s voice softened a little. “You don’t expect me to do it myself.”

 

“I told you, I like looking after you.” Jim switched off the water and sat him on the side of the bath, wrapping him in a towel. Freddie was in heaven for a moment; he’d never even considered putting a towel on the radiator so that it would be warm as he dried himself off, but Jim thought of everything. He was so careful as he blotted the water from Freddie’s hair, glancing down to see those eyes shining back at him.

 

Suddenly Freddie’s arms were around his neck and those lips were against his own. “I love you.” He told Jim, grabbing a clean shirt that Jim had brought into the bathroom and holding it to help his lover dress.

 

Jim chuckled at the sudden role reversal, rolling up the sleeves as Freddie disappeared into the bedroom. He followed after brushing out his hair, finding Freddie bundled in an old cardigan that he’d shoved in a drawer for as it got colder. He grinned and leaned against the doorframe, watching him curiously. “I think the laundry elf is stealing my clothes again, y’know?” He teased. “I can never find any clean underwear, and sweaters are a nightmare, though I swear I put a full load in every week. It’s almost like there’s a gremlin stealing them from the airers and from my drawers.”

 

Freddie looked over at him. “I don’t know what you mean.” He retorted playfully. “My drawers are full of clean and folded laundry. It’s almost like it never gets worn.” He grabbed the shoe box from on top of the chest of drawers and Jim lay back on the bed. The pointe shoes came from the box and onto his feet easily; a day without them felt too strange to comprehend.

 

“How well do they fit?” Jim questioned, propping himself up on his elbows as he glanced at his boyfriend, sat at the end of the bed. “I had to steal one of your other pairs to find out your size. I kind of just hoped that the ones I found were a good fit.” He chuckled as Freddie grinned.

 

Freddie stood up on the hardwood floor, legs a little shaky. Jim loved the look of him like this: wearing a pair of boxers that Jim thought were probably his and a sweater that was definitely his. He loved the look of Freddie, still a little bit sleepy but too excited to rest any longer, coming to a natural place of calm after confronting his demons.

 

“They feel good.” Freddie smiled as he stood up en pointe, despite every muscle in his body begging him not to. It was one of the few rest days in a full season and, now that he had Rudolph, he knew that it was only going to get busier. “Really good.” He held out his hand for Jim’s, holding tight to it as he balanced on one foot.

 

Jim’s smile was more than a little relieved. “Show me.” He said playfully; Freddie knew how much he loved to watch him dance. “Twirl for me, sweetheart.”

 

Freddie was always up for a challenge, always seeking to impress his lover; he let go of his hand as he pirouetted, finishing off in an arabesque just to show off a little. Jim whistled, and his cheeks pinkened just a little. “That’s my boy.” Jim grinned, leaning up to kiss him softly.

 

* * *

  
  


“Freddie?” Brian called from the kitchen. “You’re the only person I trust not to burn everything you touch. Can you give me a hand?” Freddie bounced up from his place on the sofa, sat snugly between Kash and Jim; Kash caught his hand quickly.

 

“One minute?” She asked Brian. “I’ve just got two more things to give him.”

 

As always, the siblings had spoiled each other, innumerable gifts torn from wrapping paper and innumerable smiles and gasps over home treasures lost and found. It was customary, that they would always spoil each other rotten at birthdays and Christmases: they were each other’s best friend, and they both got great joy out of watching the other so happy.

 

She watched as Freddie tore upon the next one, hyper-aware that Jim was glancing over his shoulder. She still didn’t know how much he knew, how much he would mind unusual customs. “Medheba aset.” She spoke quietly, though no one but Freddie would understand her. 

 

Freddie glanced up at Jim quickly and smiled. “Khewb, aw ma daned.” He spoke reassuringly before taking the present out of its little box; his heart soared as he recognised the meaning behind the plain white candle.

 

“You didn’t have a proper light source. I wanted you to have a clean fire, just in case.” Kash understood his relationship with faith more than anyone else; she knew the comfort that it  gave that nothing else could, even despite his troubled relationship with the religion itself.

 

Freddie hugged her tightly; sometimes it really did feel as though she could read his mind and his concerns. “Dewsett darem.” He transitioned back to Persian, it somehow feeling more right for the situation.

 

He turned the little candle over between his hands and smiled. “What’s the meaning behind it?” Jim asked curiously. He deliberately directed the question towards Kash, wanting her to feel included in the conversation. 

 

“We’re Zoroastrian.” She told him, not quite knowing how to begin her explanation, but she smiled regardless. She loved how he respected the both of them, respected their differences and wanted to know. “We pray towards light sources. The best prayers are the ones said before a clean fire. There’s not anywhere to do it publically here, so there aren’t any official sacred fires, but we can create them ourselves.”

 

Jim smiled and pulled a little piece of hair back from Freddie’s face. “I like that.” He said earnestly. “Catholicism could learn a thing or two. It’s awfully boring to have to sit in pews and go to confession and be taught that you’re a dirty sinner from two years old.”

 

Freddie laughed. “Good thoughts, good words, good deeds.” He said softly.

 

Kash handed over a little box finally. “You can blame my roommate for this one. She’s into crystals, and she was telling me about amber.” Her smile was shy; Jim was struck by how similar the expression was to Freddie’s. “It’s supposed to convert all negative energy into positive energy. I thought it might be nice over the trial.”

 

A thousand thoughts ran through Freddie’s mind, but the biggest one was a indefatigable love for his sister.

 

* * *

 

Jim let his eyes close for a moment as he listened to Freddie’s voice, talking to Brian in the kitchen. He loved the man so much, but sometimes he was left feeling emotionally drained; it was so hard to be someone’s rock all the time, to be a listening ear forever, to work through every little thought that haunted him.

 

He hated how it reminded him of his own experiences; he’d been doing well repressing them since moving to London, but each memory of Freddie’s dragged one of his own to the surface. Unlike Freddie, he didn’t have someone to talk to about them; he wouldn’t risk triggering his lover for the world, not when he was doing so well in boosting his self worth.

 

The flashbacks, the memories, were hard to deal with when dealing with them alone. It was the reason why he was always there for Freddie, never wanting him to have to work to repress things, wanting him to talk about it and cleanse his system so that they would stop haunting him.

 

He calmed Freddie’s tears in the open, but only ever cried himself behind closed doors, the shower running and hiding those awful gasping sobs that came as a result of trying to stay quiet. He soothed nightmares, having been woken from his own; he talked through panic attacks with the familiar tightness blooming in his own chest. The act was so good, and he played it so well, a perfectly painted clown. He wouldn’t put someone so fragile through seeing their rock crumble, not when Freddie was so dependent.

 

He grabbed his cigarettes with shaking fingers and walked out onto the balcony. One day he’d quit. Not yet.

 

He leaned heavily, elbows against the railing, nearly burning himself with the lighter before pulling the smoke into his lungs. He closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair, stopping to pull a little bit at the root to pull himself together. His shoulders slumped, losing the familiar strength that he usually portrayed; he couldn’t bring himself to look beyond his bare feet.

 

It was so easy to be happy when Freddie was around, to feel useful and wanted and loved. The satisfaction he got from helping someone else made it easier to deal with his own failures. Even if he couldn’t help himself, he could help someone else.

 

He blew the smoke towards the midday sun, the cold biting at his bare arms. 

 

“Jim?” A familiar voice, intruding in on his time alone. He swallowed hard, stood up straight, and then smiled.

 

“What can I do for you?” He said to Kash, flicking ash over the balcony as he turned to her. 

 

“Are you okay?” She asked quietly, walking towards him. Jim considered her for a second, considered everything that she’d been through; even though she’d never been hit - Freddie had told him about taking punishments for her, a fierce possessiveness that said she would never be treated that way: he’d take twice the violence, twice the lashes, to never put his sister through pain. Though she’d never been hit, she’d spent her whole childhood comforting her crying brother, cleaning wounds, hiding in his arms from the monsters under the bed that came at dawn with a belt in hand and then being dragged away when they appeared in real life. She’d listened to begging, screaming, crying, sitting outside his bedroom as welts were drawn through newly-healed skin with tears in her own eyes-

 

_ She curled up, knees to chest, hands crammed over her ears. It had been her mistake, a missed train for the sake of ten more minutes in the market, Freddie twirling flowers through her hair and buying her the prettiest little bracelet. She had just wanted to make the most of their time together while he was back from school. _

 

_ Freddie screamed and she strangled her own sob. She couldn’t even remember the excuse this time, some talk of a coffee with an old friend that he’d bumped into, forcing Kash to do her homework on a little table in the cafe. It was his tone that had angered their father so badly, a challenge of his authority, that voice that had come back from boarding school saying I’m sixteen and now I can make my own choices. _

 

_ “Please stop-” Freddie broke out into another cry. “Please! Please, I’m sorry- please-” She could hear the smack that time, the brutal sound of leather against bare skin, skin that had already been hit so many times, skin that was bruised and bleeding. “Please, daddy, I’ll do anything-” _

 

_ He sounded about six again and Kash’s gut wrenched when the sounds stopped. Maybe he’d done it, maybe he’d found what would break their father- _

 

_ “Anything?” _

 

_ It was a challenge. She could hear the ragged gasps of Freddie’s sobs. “Anything, daddy, I’m so sorry.” He said, voice quieter. _

 

_ “Go and get Kash, then.” _

 

_ She closed her eyes tightly, caught between that sense of self-preservation, a wish that Freddie would take them, and a wish for the pain to stop for him. She stood up on shaky legs, brushed out her skirts, approached the bedroom door- _

 

_ “No? Then take them quietly. We wouldn’t want her to hear.” _

 

_ Freddie’s next cry came from between gritted teeth, a trickle of blood rolling down and over his stomach. _

 

She’d moved to London, to the land where she could leave it behind, to have to pick her broken brother up from bedroom floors. 

 

It humbled him. 

 

“Just tired.” He smiled at her. “Your brother can be a handful sometimes.” He joked, but it came out weak.

 

She took a cigarette from his packet and lit it, standing by his side. “How do you do it?” She asked quietly. “I’ve known him his whole life, but you know all the right things to say and do that would never even occur to me.”

 

Two avenues, Jim recognised: the whole truth or the partial truth.

 

He wouldn’t put Kash through another story of betrayal. 

 

“Plenty of experience and practice.” He took another drag, holding the smoke until it burned.

 

She looked over at him. She could see the tiredness around his eyes, the hunch in his shoulders, a silent language that maybe he wasn’t as rock solid as everyone assumed. “Do you want to talk about it?” She asked quietly.

 

And he did, he really did, but he wouldn’t. “I’m not putting you through that.” He said quietly.

 

She rested a hand over his, and Jim wondered how long it had been since someone had cared for him. “You don’t have to play pretend.” She said, keeping her voice down. “You don’t have to pretend that you’re strong all the time.”

 

Maybe he’d said those words to Freddie, a few months ago now, but nobody had ever said them back to him. Something in them broke him, broke his sense of resolve, his absolute focus on only letting the past get to him after midnight, alone on the bathroom floor.

 

He trusted her.

 

“I went to boarding school as a kid.” The words trickled out without his permission, reminding him of those first admissions from Freddie, the reason for bruises and the content of flashbacks. “Catholic boarding school. The priests there, they-” He swallowed hard; it was so hard to say it out loud, and suddenly he had more respect for Freddie than ever. “They liked little boys too much.”

 

Kash squeezed his hand then, lighting him another cigarette when his burned down to the filter. “Did they hurt you?” She asked quietly, that same tone of voice that she used to talk Freddie out of panic.

 

“Not really.” He said quietly. “I was one of the lucky ones. I was too boisterous and I slept in dormitories. They wanted the quiet ones, and I screamed too loudly.” He closed his eyes and dragged the heel of his hand over his eyelids. “But sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night and I’d have some dirty old man trying to undress me while I slept and no one seemed to care whenever we reported it. We spent years telling teachers and social workers and the police and no one ever did anything to make it stop.”

 

He watched the smoke in the wind for a little while. “Ironically, I think it’s one of the reasons that I found out that I liked men.” He smiled wryly. “As we got older, we’d sleep in each others’ beds so that no one was ever alone. It was harder to target someone if they were sleeping next to someone.”

 

It felt like a strange weight off his chest. “So when Freddie says those things, it drags all the memories back up, all the flashbacks.”

 

_ The sheets were warm around him and he made a soft noise as he rolled onto his side. He brought the blanket up to his nose and snuggled in again, clutching tight to the teddy bear that smelled of home and his mother. Dark eyelashes fluttered against pale cheeks as he was lulled back to sleep. _

 

_ He jolted at the hand on his waist, the hand so big against the baby-softness of his skin, pulling and pushing and exposing his back to the cold winter air. He whimpered, tried to move away from it, rolled to face those hands. _

 

_ The man above him rested a finger on his lips, teaching him to be quiet. He nodded obediently, heart beating out of his chest, fingers and legs shaky and his tummy filled with butterflies. _

 

_ He heard the crackle of a belt buckle, the pull of a zipper, and he was paralysed with fright. There was only one thing he could do. _

 

_ He screamed, and he screamed, for as long as his little lungs would allow him to. He screamed until the man had gone, until the lights had come up, until he was quickly swept into the arms of a dormitory mother, rocking him and shushing him gently. _

 

_ He sucked his thumb and held his teddy bear tight. _

 

“Shit.” Kash replied. “And so you know what it’s like, how to help him, because-”

 

“I’ve learned every trick in the book.” His eyes fixed on a spot on the horizon. “And I guess I get some kind of sick satisfaction out of watching him get better. I get a kick out of sending Paul to court. It’s like everything that I could never achieve is happening to him, and it makes it more bearable when someone’s getting justice.”

 

“Does Freddie know any of this?” She asked quietly.

 

“It’ll trigger him.” He said quietly. “He doesn’t need to be reminded of childhood trauma. He’s got plenty of his own.”

 

_ He wrapped his arms around the boy’s neck, kissing and kissing until their lips were almost numb. The room was dark, the dormitory was silent, but he felt as though he were safe there, in those arms, for a little while. He lay back on the pillow, letting the boy above him kiss down his neck - it didn’t make him gay, he was just experimenting, just like they all did with those long nights and the nightmares that made them want to stay up for as long as they could. _

 

_ They both froze still as the door opened, the beam of light cutting through the room; they lay back to back quickly, eyes closed, hands trembling, stomachs filled with butterflies and hoping they wouldn’t be chosen that night. _

 

_ “Which one’s easiest?” _

 

_ “David.” _

 

_ “Which one’s a challenge?” _

 

_ “Jim.” _

 

_ His stomach dropped and his head span. _

 

_ “I’ll go for Jim. I like a challenge.” _

 

_ The boy behind him rolled over, hooked one leg over one of his and wrapped an arm tight around his waist. He rested his forehead against the back of his neck, staying as humanly close as possible. _

 

_ They’d get whipped for contact with another boy like this, but it might just save him. _

 

_ “He’s got a mate.” The voice sounded disappointed. “I won’t risk it. Not tonight. I’ll get him some other time.” _

 

_ The door closed and Jim whispered the most earnest of thanks, promising to take the blame and the lashes.  _

 

“You should tell him.” Kash squeezed his hand again. “I know it’s hard, but he’ll want to know. He wants to help you, too.”

 

* * *

  
  


“Freddie?” Jim asked softly, pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks just to make him smile. “Would you come here, love? I forgot to give you one of your presents.” The lie came out terribly weak, and Freddie raised an eyebrow playfully.

 

“I’m very comfortable.” He replied. “If this is a trick, I’m going to be disappointed in you, darling.” He said jokingly, kicking his legs over the arm of the sofa to walk out into the hallway. “What- oh!”

 

His delighted squeal came from a basket that Jim was holding, soft and padded with blankets; he was curious to know what was inside. “What is it?” He asked excitedly.

 

“You’ll have to have a look inside.” He teased and Freddie stuck his tongue out. Fingers tentatively unwrapped the basket, and Jim watched as the expression on his face changed from delight to awe. 

 

He put the basket down quickly, picking up the tiny cat and cradling it close. “Oh my god-” Freddie’s voice was barely a whisper, not wanting to spook it. “Oh my god, Jim, darling!”

 

“His name is Peaches and he’s nine months old.” He wrapped an arm around Freddie’s waist. “He’s a proper therapy cat. He’s been trained to be very calm and loving.”

 

Freddie cooed as the cat nuzzled his nose. “Is he visiting?” He asked softly, running his thumb over its little forehead.

 

“He’s yours.” Jim said softly. “He’s going to stay with us forever, now. And he’s going to help look after us.” He explained.

 

“He’s mine.” Freddie echoed; he’d never had a pet to love and cherish before, and this cat was perfect. “Darling, I love him so much.” He said softly.

 

That night, Freddie fell asleep with the cat tucked under one arm. When Jim woke from the nightmares, his fingers touched soft fur, and then soft skin, and he fell asleep with his two favourite boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this satisfies at least some of the questions you guys have about Jim!  
> Persian:  
> Kash: It's religious  
> Freddie: It's okay, he knows. / I love you.


	61. Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The document for Fluorescent is now 240 pages long and my iPad is refusing to open it. We've basically hit 100,000 words now (which is hilarious if you look back on how long I told people it would be initially: I estimated 20 chapters and circa 20,000 words!). This is also finally the fluff chapter that you all deserve!

Jim woke up to one side cold, one side warm; Freddie was curled up tight to left side. Jim couldn’t feel his fingers from where his lover lay tucked up, hidden sweetly in the sleepy embrace of his boyfriend. He could feel cold toes pressed to his shins, the soft skin on the inside of his thigh against Jim’s leg where he’d pressed so close during the night.

 

He smiled as he looked down at his sleeping lover; it was so rare that he woke before Freddie that to watch him sleep felt like a treat. He glanced around their room quickly, spotting Peaches lounging on the windowsill, having made himself a little bed from a quickly discarded pair of ballet tights.

 

As he glanced around again, he quickly noted that everything was identical to how it had been the night before: there were no new glasses of water on the bedside table, no pair of pajama bottoms discarded on the bedroom floor.

 

Freddie had slept through the night.

 

The realisation made his chest bloom with happiness: the whole time they’d been together, Freddie was forever getting up in the night for water or fresh air or company if the nightmares were bad and he didn’t want to wake Jim. Jim usually woke a least a little, enough to check that he wasn’t in tears and in need of love. This night, it had been his own nightmares that had woken him, and Freddie had stayed asleep.

 

He pressed a kiss to Freddie’s forehead when he felt him begin to stir. As he did, Peaches leapt down from his spot on the windowsill and snuggled back under Freddie’s arm, purring soothingly against his chest; Jim felt his own eyes grow heavy again. Freddie stilled, falling back asleep, and he smiled. Between his own warmth and Peaches’ calmness, they’d managed to help him rest.

 

He was pulled out of sleep by a voice next to him a little later; Freddie sat up, dropped a kiss on his lips and then rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?” He muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

 

He glanced over at the clock, and Jim watched with fondness as he squinted to see the time. It was a little after eight in the morning, still respectably early; Jim wanted to tug him back into bed for lazy morning kisses and the touch of those warm fingertips that he knew so well.

 

“Shit-” Freddie picked up Peaches, gave him a kiss on the head, and stood up. “Shit, I’ll be late-” He looked over at Jim quickly, assuming he was asleep, and then turned back to his wardrobe. “Peaches, where are my fucking tights?”

 

Jim couldn’t help his snort of laughter when Freddie spoke so earnestly to the cat. “Peaches won’t help with that one.” He murmured sleepily, rolling on to his side to watch his lover. “You’ve got some clean ones in the laundry pile in the closet. I haven’t had time to put them away properly.”

 

“You’re a star.” Freddie responded. “I wasn’t supposed to be needed today, but I don’t know the Mayerling choreography so Olga wants me in.” He yawned and walked into the bathroom, quickly grabbing a toothbrush from the side.

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s mine.” Jim commented idly, grinning as Freddie glanced, mouth full of bubbles, at his own toothbrush still dry and on the side. “Don’t worry about it, baby doll.” He chuckled, standing up and dropping a kiss on his head before grabbing Freddie’s. “I’ll have to make do.”

 

Freddie’s smile was soapy and possibly the sweetest thing Jim had ever seen. “I’ll grab you a shirt.” Jim’s voice came from amongst foam. “Do you want your new shoes?”

 

Freddie nodded frantically as he spat toothpaste into the sink. “I’ll have to grab breakfast later.” He said, voice a little mournful. He hated practicing on an empty stomach.

 

“Grab one of Brian’s cereal bars. I’ll cover for you.” Jim handed him the shirt he loved, the pale blue one that just verged on too short to be considered full length. He rinsed his mouth out and then grabbed Freddie’s ballet bag, putting all three pairs of shoes in; tap, pointe, and split-sole. He never knew quite what was on the agenda for the day, but then neither did Freddie, usually.

 

“Thank you.” Freddie wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed him quickly. “I love you so much. I’m finished at one.”

 

“I’ll be there.” Jim promised. “I love you too.”

 

“Are we doing something?” Freddie asked excitedly, checking through his bag once before heading down the stairs and into the kitchen.

 

“Well.” Jim started to grin and flicked the kettle on as Freddie filled his water bottle. “I happened to notice that you’re an absolute disaster and you haven’t got a suit even though I’m taking you out in two days.” He teased and kissed Freddie’s cheek.

 

Freddie’s cheeks pinkened - he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten.

 

“And I also happened to notice that you have a full day tomorrow, so you won’t be getting one then.” He hummed. “So we’re going to go to a lovely little shop and buy you a suit.”

 

Freddie smiled then and leaned up to kiss him once more before stealing a cereal bar from the box behind him. “I love you.” He repeated.

 

_“Can we pause for a second?” Freddie asked, grabbing his water bottle and sitting against the wall. “I need a break.”_

 

_He’d learned the hard way to stop assuming that he was invincible, and he didn’t like the familiar dizziness that clouded his view._

 

_“Everything okay?” Olga asked, walking towards him._

 

_It would be so easy to lie, it really would, but he wasn’t about to jeopardise his career by trying to pretend that everything was fine, again. He’d done enough of that with the rib. “I feel faint.” He said honestly. “Light-headed.”_

 

_Olga picked up his wrist and pressed two fingers against it; one of the most common causes of fainting in dancers was their blood pressure and blood sugar levels. “Breakfast today and dinner yesterday?” She checked._

 

_Freddie nodded. “It’s not sugar.” He said. “I don’t feel shaky.”_

 

_“What do your hands feel like?” She moved her fingers a little further down his arm._

 

_“Cold.” He replied._

 

_“It might be your blood pressure. I can’t feel a pulse in your wrist.” She tilted his head up and felt under his neck. “It’s okay here.”_

 

_“What can I do to help it?” He asked earnestly._

 

_“Have you got water or isotonic with you?” She sat in front of him. “It might be a bit of dehydration.”_

 

_“Just water.” He said shyly; he’d never even considered isotonic outside of performances._

 

_“I’ll get you an isotonic. Sounds to me like your system might be a bit out of balance. It’s probably dehydration if you were drinking yesterday.” Freddie loved Olga for this reason - she never sounded judgemental, just honest._

 

_“Could it be tablets?” He asked as she started to stand up._

 

_“Could be. What are you taking?”_

 

_He recited the names: he was down from six different medications to two lots of painkillers, as his recovery from surgery was going well._

 

_“The second one doesn’t go well with alcohol.” She explained. “Sounds like that and dehydration to me.”_

 

_Freddie nodded and held out his water bottle as she poured a powder in. “It’s okay, we all do it.” She said reassuringly. “It won’t hurt you. You just need to make sure that you’re drinking more than usual today. You can have as much of this as you need.”_

 

_She felt so thankful that Freddie was opening up; after watching him struggle through injury after injury alone, it felt good to be able to help him._

 

_“Thank you.” Freddie murmured before taking a long swallow of the drink._

 

_“Thank you.” She responded. “Thank you for telling me.”_

 

The bustle of Covent Garden was like a melody that Jim wished he’d written. It had such an electric hum, even on Boxing Day, street performers and music and flowers and the smell of cinnamon from food stalls. He held two hot chocolates, one spiced with orange and the other with vanilla: it felt right to treat Freddie to something a little indulgent and Christmassy.

 

He occupied himself by glancing into shop windows, staying within a stone’s throw of the back entrance of the Opera House. He glanced at some flowers for sale, planning what to buy for their Friday night together. His fingers touched yellow freesias, orange carnations, pale pink roses; he wondered momentarily if he could get them all bound together with ribbon to make the most beautiful bouquet.

 

He didn’t even look up as a hand landed on the small of his back. Maybe it was his boredom with being hit on in clubs for the sake of sex that had left him to rebuff every attempt made in public; he didn’t even find amusement in teasing them anymore. “Waiting for my husband.” He said brusquely.

 

“Wait no longer.” The voice teased and Jim looked up quickly. “Husband. I like the sound of that.” Freddie’s smile was gorgeous, his expression one of pure joy when he noticed the cups in Jim’s hands. “Which is mine?”

 

Jim held out the chocolate orange with a smile. “I like calling you my husband.” He said softly. “Everyone believes me when they see your ring. I bought you chocolate orange.” He added.

 

“Perfect.” Freddie kissed his cheek as they started to walk together. “My pianist is leaving at the end of the month, darling, and I’m so sad.”

 

“You have a pianist?” Jim questioned, laughing a little. “Since when?”

 

“Well, not to myself.” Freddie conceded, swinging their hands. “But he’s the only one that really listens to corrections that I make in the music. All the others quieten down the third chorus of Harmonies Du Soir, even when I ask them not to.” He pouted. “Olga noticed that we worked well together and so she used to put us on the same projects a lot. Now they’ll have to find a new person and train them up.”

 

“Is that the one I heard you playing the other morning?” Jim’s mind exploded into a thousand possibilities of _could I? Should I?_ before Freddie’s laughter drew him back into the present.

 

“Oh no, darling. I couldn’t play Harmonies to save my life. The bridge is far too complicated, and I’m not that great of a pianist to begin with.” He cradled his cup close as he sipped, enjoying one of his favourite tastes.

 

“You’ll have to give me the music sometime.” Maybe, if he could play it, he’d stand a chance.

 

Freddie grinned. “I will. But remember to keep the third chorus loud.” He winked. “Honestly, darling, I don’t think I’ve got the stamina to have another argument about my tempo in comparison to the music. Olga called me out four times for not getting up quickly enough, but I’m convinced that they could just slow the music down. They’re not the ones carrying a whole other person with just brute force.”

 

Jim chuckled and wrapped an arm around Freddie’s waist. “What am I going to do with you, Mr. Mercury?” He asked playfully. Freddie snuggled happily into the embrace; Jim could see that the end of his nose was pink with the cold.

 

“Keep me warm, for starters.” Freddie was in such a good mood that afternoon, and it was infectious. “When I applied for school here, no one told me that it got so fucking cold in the winter. It’s why I steal all your clothes, because none of mine keep me warm.” He pouted. “I feel cheated, because it’s so cold and there’s no snow and I’ve never even seen snow.”

 

Jim raised an eyebrow. “It’s nowhere near cold enough for snow. It’s like seven degrees, Fred, it’s not even that cold.”

 

“Just because you’re a bloody Irish witch.” Freddie grinned and stole half of Jim’s scarf, wrapping it around the both of them. “Now, where’s this shop you were talking about?”

 

“Just around here.” Jim chuckled. “I’m paying, so don’t you worry your pretty little head about any of that.” Freddie opened his lips to protest, but Jim pressed a finger to them quickly. “Shush. Consider it part of the date.”

 

His cheeks pinkened a little and he stuck his tongue out defiantly. “I want something unusual.” He said. “I don’t want a black suit. I don’t look good in black.”

 

They walked into the shop, being greeted by warm air that made Freddie shiver. He looked around the selections quickly; a wall of penguin suits, a few racks of blue, some tweed in the corner, and then a multitude of colours at the back. “Let’s look over there.”

 

“Good afternoon, sir, my name is Florian. Is there anything I can help with today?” A shop assistant asked, smiling sweetly at the both of them. He was young, dark-haired, olive-skinned, just a touch paler than Freddie; Freddie noted how good he looked in a red suit.

 

Jim was looking through blue suits, and Freddie rolled his eyes. Blue was too predictable. “Yes, darling, I think you can.” He smiled. “Which suit are you wearing?”

 

The man took him over to the back rail. “I’m wearing the slim fit summer suit in garnet, sir.” He replied, gesturing to the rack beside them. “Would you like to try it on?”

 

“I’d love to.” Freddie smiled. “But I have no idea what size I am.” He laughed.

 

“That’s no problem.” Florian smiled back. “If I can take a few quick measurements, we can pick out the right size for you today.”

 

“Of course, darling.” Freddie caught Jim’s eye and shooed him away. Suddenly, he wanted to surprise him. “Go away. I don’t want you to see it until I’m wearing it.” He grinned.

 

“It’s not a wedding dress, sweetheart.” Jim chuckled. “But as you wish. I’m going to find something for myself. Give me a shout when you’re dressed.”

 

“You’ve got quite a large chest to waist ratio, sir, so I’d recommend the tailored super slim.” He picked out the suit jacket. “We can get you a tailored shirt, too, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

 

“That would be great.” Freddie smiled as he measured his hips and inside leg measurement. “What are my measurements, out of interest?”

 

“Twenty-seven around the waist, thirty-five around the chest, thirty-three around the hips and thirty-two on the inside leg.” He stood back up and picked out the trousers. “I’d also go for the tailored super slim in these, otherwise they’ll hang a little loose.”

 

“Thank you.” Freddie smiled. “Now, I was hoping for a simple black shirt, and tailored would be great.” He’d never even considered having to buy tailored before - Mary had been right, in that first class, that he’d change shape dramatically as a professional. He rested a hand subconsciously on his waist - twenty-seven inches. He smiled to himself.

 

“This one should work a treat.” Florian handed him a shirt box. “The changing rooms are over in that corner. If you’d like, I can call your husband when you’re dressed.”

 

Husband. Freddie glanced down at his ring and smiled; he loved people mistaking them for a long-term couple. “That would be incredible.” He smiled.

 

He’d never put on clothes that fit him so well. The nature of the devil was always having something that didn’t fit, a shirt that wouldn’t quite match his figure, trousers too loose at the hips, a jacket either too tight in the shoulders or too large around the waist. He’d given up on trying to wear formalwear, and he’d never even considered going to a place like this.

 

He looked at himself in the mirror, twisted and turned a little. The shirt came in at the waist, accentuating his figure; the trousers showed off the curves and contours of his body without being obscene, and the jacket did up perfectly around the middle. He’d never been more in love with his reflection.

 

“Florian?” Freddie called. “Could you get my husband, please?” The words made his cheeks pinkened and he fanned himself so he wouldn’t be caught blushing.

 

A soft knock on the door came a few moments later and Freddie did up the jacket before opening it.

 

When Jim’s eyes landed on him, all he could see was how radiant his lover looked. He’d seen him naked many times, but it only felt like now that he got to appreciate the insane beauty of his lover’s figure. “Darling-” Jim started, fully aware that he was staring. “Jesus Christ, Freddie.”

 

Freddie grinned back at him and rolled the sleeves up a little; he nearly snorted with laughter when he saw Jim’s eyes fix on the veins in his forearm. “My eyes are up here, my dear.” He teased.

 

“You’re going to kill me.” Jim walked into the dressing room and cupped his cheek, other arm wrapping tight around that waist, that fucking waist that he shouldn’t have loved as much as he did. He couldn’t get over how good the red looked against the warmth of his skin, the contrast of the black.  “You’re genuinely going to kill me. You look incredible.”

 

Freddie laughed as they kissed. “You should’ve known better than to fall in love with me, then.” He whispered, standing on his toes as he wrapped his arms around Jim’s neck.

 

“You’re the best decision I’ve ever made, Freddie Mercury.” He said seriously. “I love you so fucking much.”

 

Freddie smiled, suddenly a little shier. “If I’d have known that a suit would make you so happy, then I would’ve done this earlier.” He let out the sweetest giggle and Jim kissed him again.

 

“I’m going to have to take you out for more dates as an excuse to see you in this.” He thumbed the lapel and smiled. “How do you feel about it?”

 

“I love it.” Freddie said honestly. “I didn’t realise I had such insane measurements. It makes sense of why formalwear never fits.” He paused for a moment. “It feels good to wear stuff to show off a little.”

 

Jim’s smile widened. “You look incredible.” He repeated. “I’m buying you it.”

 

 

“Darling?” Freddie looked in the mirror of their bedroom; they were back at Jim’s that evening, Peaches happily getting to know his other home. “Can you cut my hair for me?” He asked hopefully as Jim entered the room.

 

“A trim?” He questioned, wiping his hands a tea-towel. “Of course. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

 

“More than a trim.” Freddie bit his lip. “I need Rudolph hair. Think unkempt, grown out from being short and well-kept.” He tried to explain.

 

Jim ran his fingers through Freddie’s hair, holding a piece in his hand. “This long?” He asked; his fingers were a little too close to the root.

 

“A little longer. Long enough to curl a little.” He watched as Jim moved his fingers out a little, leaving about two inches between them and the root.

 

“How about this?” He questioned; it had never occurred to him that Freddie’s hair might be curly without as much weight.

 

“That’s good.” Freddie smiled. “It’s a lot off.”

 

Jim smiled. “I’ll do it after dinner. I’ll have to get used to having less hair to hold onto.” He teased.

 

 

 

Freddie bit his lip with the first cut, watching as it fell to the floor. “No going back.” He said softly. “I haven’t had it short since I was in India.”

 

“I think it’ll look lovely.” Jim said in reply. “Besides, if it’s too strange then you can grow it out again.”

 

He watched as Jim’s hands moved quickly through his hair, cutting with such precision. “Remember that I have to look a little deranged.” Freddie grinned. “Make sure it’s got some texture.”

 

Jim chuckled and did as he was told. It was very easy to get lost in the rhythmic nature of cutting hair, and especially when it was for a loved one instead of a client. Freddie was happy to watch him work; he tucked his legs under and brought one hand to pet Peaches’ soft head.

 

When he glanced up, he almost didn’t recognise himself. He’d grown accustomed to seeing long hair in the mirror every morning, brushing and tying it up or pushing it back with gel if it was annoying him during rehearsals. “Holy fuck.” He laughed a little. “I look so weird.”

 

“It suits you.” Jim smiled.

 

“You know the weirder thing?” He laughed a little. “I have to grow a moustache. I’m not even sure that I can grow a moustache.”

 

“You’re going to look so different.” Jim chuckled. “I’ll style it for you if you let it grow out a little. Make sure that you’re still fit for public consumption.” He winked.

 

Freddie woke first the next morning, eased back into their usual routine. As Jim leaned up to kiss him, he glanced his bed-hair; instead of the usual fluffiness, he was treated to the most beautiful curls instead. “Good morning, gorgeous.” He murmured roughly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was basically just written because we stan Freddie's ridiculous waist measurement and also his curly hair (he was actually curly-haired when he performed with the Royal in '79!)


	62. Professional Development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a risk, but it's a risk he's willing to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter! Sorry kids, but I really wanted to get something up for you this week. The next chapter is the date night chapter (this is the morning of the date night)!

_ She’d noticed it before; she’d noticed how he always had a tune in mind, a melody that defined his movements even when he wasn’t dancing. She could see it in his body, how much he enjoyed the mechanism of the dance. He was born to move in that way, so graceful and so fluid, and he moved in that way inside and outside of the studio. He would twirl to reach something in his bag, roll back up, sharing in the laughter that it always caused between him and his friends. He was beautiful, and they knew it. _

 

_ “Freddie?” Olga walked over. The man was beaming, a little out of breath from his role in the pas de deux, making the most of his opportunity to take five. “I’m going to shoot an assumption at you, and I want you to tell me if it’s right or if it’s wrong.” _

 

_ “Go ahead.” He raised his water bottle to his lips and she could see the slight flex of his tricep; he was lean, almost sinewy, but his muscles had begun to fill out more recently. He was arguably in the best physical condition of almost all of her principals, though he shouldn’t be logically. The memory of the rib still hung over her. _

 

_ “I think you’re a natural born storyteller.” She started. “I think you’ve got a natural theatricality that lends you incredibly well to classical ballet. But, I think you go deeper than what we’ve been giving you.” _

 

_ “What do you mean?” He smiled back at her. “I don’t think you could give me much better than Rudolph.” _

 

_ “I think we can.” She replied immediately. “Because I think you also love dancing just for the sake of the dance itself. I think you love dancing because you love the movements and the technicality and the power of the body.” _

 

_ Freddie smiled, though it was a little confused. “Where is this going?” He asked, voice suddenly a little shier. _

 

_ “I’d like to put you on a new project with one of our choreographers. I know you’ve had and still have a full season, because you’ve had The Prince, Rudolph, the main in Rubies and then chorus roles elsewhere.” She chuckled. “But we’re creating a new, more contemporary ballet. Ballet for ballet’s sake.” _

 

_ He nodded excitedly. “I’m in.” He said immediately. “Is this for this season or next?” _

 

_ “Next. So far I’ve got you down for this, the Mad Hatter and the Caterpillar, but I might find more.” Her smile was almost apologetic. “I know it’s a lot. I’m really keen to get you a full professional repertoire.” She shrugged. “And you’re my favourite to watch.” _

 

_ “It’s not too much.” Freddie smiled at her. “I love a challenge.” _

 

_ She chuckled. “I’ll give you a slightly longer standard leave in exchange. Usually you’d get a full week off for summer, but I’m happy to give you two.” _

 

_ Freddie was wrapped up in the thoughts immediately; although the soloist pay grade hadn’t been meagre, the principal was lavish. He could take Jim to Milan, to Paris, to New York: two weeks seemed an endless amount of time. _

 

_ “Thank you.” He said, and Olga swore his smile was even brighter. _

  
  


“As you can see, this is the Clore Studio.” The receptionist smiled at Jim as they walked through the corridors. “The main morning class is often taken in here, and any of our large numbers are rehearsed here. There are almost innumerable smaller rooms for rehearsing pas de deux and solo pieces. You’ll find that the rehearsal rooms are more dependent on piano, whereas performances and dress rehearsals are more orchestral.”

 

It felt daring to be here, and especially without having properly discussed it with Freddie outside of jokes and imagine-what-ifs. And maybe it felt daring because it was daring, vying for a professional contract amongst people years his senior and years more experienced.

 

The Royal had been kind to Freddie, and maybe they’d be kind to him too.

 

She pushed open the door to a music hall, and Jim stood, momentarily overwhelmed. It was like nothing he’d ever seen, totally filled with instruments beyond his dreams, the exotic to be used momentarily and the grand to be used every time.

 

He walked towards the man in the centre of the room, calmed by how warm and friendly he seemed. “I’m Joby, lead composer for the Royal.” He held out his hand. “You must be Mr. Hutton?”

 

“Jim.” He said, voice quiet. “Please, call me Jim.”

 

“Jim it is.” Joby smiled. “Now, the way today works is very simple. I’d like to take details about any qualifications you have, which instruments you play, and which you’d be willing to play. Then I’d like to hear you play a piece of your choice. My friend Christopher will also listen in; he’s a choreographer, and he likes to assess your musicianship to know how well you’ll fit with the dancers.”

 

Jim felt more at home here than he had in every other institution he’d been to: it felt as though they wanted to know him, to hear him. They would give him a chance. “That’s all fine with me. I’ve chosen a piece from one of your ballets, actually.” 

 

“You must have a keen ear to know the music.” Joby smiled.

 

“Actually, it’s insider knowledge.” Jim replied. “I know one of your principals.”

 

“Explains why you seem so at home here.” Joby’s words were comforting; Jim wanted to be at home there so much. “How much do you know about performing for the ballet itself?”

 

“I’ve spent the last six months playing for his extra rehearsals.” Jim twisted his hands together nervously. “I’m definitely not a dancer, but I’ve picked up on most of the language used, or else I’ve had him explain it to me. I’ve spent quite a bit of time observing rehearsals, too.”

 

Joby smiled. “You’re becoming a better candidate by the minute. Have you got any particular qualifications?”

 

“First class honours in music, specialising in piano and performance.” Jim began to feel a little more confident. “I’ve spent quite a long time performing violin and cello in professional orchestras, too.”

 

“I’d like to hear those.” Joby smiled. “Now, you have to understand that the hours here aren’t the usual work that everyone strives for. The amount of candidates that become disheartened when they realise that they have to be available for half-days on Saturdays, some Sundays and early on Wednesdays; they can often lose their passion very quickly.”

 

“I-” Jim’s cheeks coloured a little; he didn’t know how much Freddie had told them, and he didn’t want to sabotage anything. “I’m actually currently living with the principal I was talking about earlier on.” He left it very deliberately gender neutral. “So I know the hours very well. Personally, I prefer to have a little element of randomisation in my life.” He smiled.

 

He watched as a few notes were taken. “And what do you understand by the relationship between dance and music?”

 

Every time he had one of these questions, he dove in without considering the full extent of his answer; this time, he took a pause. “I think dancers require a great degree of strength in the music.” He replied after a while. “I think the music is integral to the notion of performance. If I play the third chorus with strength, then they can find the strength to drive to the end of a gruelling routine. I think it’s important to take more notice of the dancers, to play for their performance instead of for the sake of the score.” He looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a relationship built on trust and mutual understanding.”

 

“I like that.” Joby smiled. “Can I hear you play?” He stood up from the piano stool and gestured for him. “I must warn you not to play Viennese Waltzes. I simply can’t stand them, and I have to write them.”

 

Jim laughed and sat down, stretched his fingers out over the keys, paused quicky to glance over the piano. The Bechstein wasn’t all that dissimilar from the one at home, and it calmed him immensely. He knew the weight, he knew the sound, and he knew he could trust it.

 

He pressed his fingers down, and he began to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have any interest in the ballet that Olga's talking about? It's here and I love it: https://youtu.be/2SMmL6kIx-w  
> Also for anyone who wants the piano piece that they keep talking about: https://open.spotify.com/track/0GXNz76fyje1qbYeTnteLP?si=kqDNq4roQ5CupAl5UEx3Lw
> 
> Also every character from the Royal that I name (Olga, Christoper, Joby etc.) are all actual members of staff I bet they never expected this


	63. Maelstrom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple pick-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have officially finished school (forever!) and so now I have WAY more time to write - although, my exams start in 12 days so don't expect all the updates quite yet. Here's another soft chapter; we had Jim's reaction to Freddie, so I obviously had to put in Freddie's reaction to Jim.

The sunset was beautiful that evening, more beautiful than Jim could’ve ever hoped it to be: it cascaded across the sky in a shower of pinks, reds, gold still gilding the tops of the buildings and clouds standing dark against the pale night sky. The cold bit at the tips of his fingers and the end of his nose, but he was warm enough, wrapped up in a scarf that he’d stolen from Freddie; definitely more for fashion than for practicality, but it served its job well enough. He pushed his sleeve up a little, watching rubies glinting in the low light as he adjusted his cufflinks. They’d been an impulse purchase, but tonight was special, and he had to look the part.

 

Freddie was a tornado at the best of times, a maelstrom, a whirlwind of bright colours and pink cheeks and the softest lips that always tasted of cocoa butter. He seemed unaware of his own natural energy, a living Charybdis, upheaving standards and melting hearts as he moved along. Even now, even stepping out of the back doors of the Opera House, shivering despite his coat, his energy caused a riot in Jim’s mind.

 

Such a tumult was often defined by colour, Jim had noticed. As Freddie stepped outside, the world exploded into a thousand shades of gold; honey, royal, marigold. The late-afternoon sunshine touched the highlights of his face, painted him like a Roman portrait, accentuating those dark eyes that Jim had come to love so much. He squinted momentarily in the darkness, pulling his scarf closer around him; Jim could see the surreptitious glimpse of diamonds of fabric that promised him that he was nowhere near ready.

 

Their eyes met, and Jim could see so much in them, in the way that the light touched the pupil and lit up the molten gingerbread of their core. He was like gingerbread that evening; light, spicy, warming and homely. Jim’s heart soared as Freddie came running for him, suddenly engulfed by long arms and warm lips and the softest of fingertips.

 

A maelstrom; a powerful whirlpool not only in his life, but everyone’s, dragging them into his orbit with a sweet smile and even sweeter words.

 

“Baby doll-” He was laughing before he realised, arms wrapping around his waist. “That’s a nice hello.” He kissed the end of his nose, icy-cold against his lips.

 

“You look incredible.” Freddie said softly. “I’ve not seen you all dressed up before, and darling-” A cheeky smile blossomed across his face, reaching up to touch his eyes, and he bit his lip, faux-innocent. “You look positively edible.”

 

Jim kissed him again, biting teasingly at his lower lip. “You only have two hours to get ready, Mr. Mercury, which I know is a challenge for you.” He said, voice low in his ear. “But first of all, you need to move back so you don’t crush your present.”

 

Freddie stepped back immediately, confused expression blooming into one of pure joy. Jim held a bouquet of nine blush roses, tied together with simple white silk; each petal was tinted with the lightest pink, a marshmallow softness and sweetness around the edges. “My darling…” Freddie repeated, cheeks pinkening. 

 

“Nine means together forever.” He let Freddie take the flowers and cupped his cheek gently. “And blush just reminded me so much of you.” He ran a thumb over Freddie’s cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin. 

 

“You’re the only person I’m not shy around.” He smiled bashfully, clutching the roses tightly to his chest. No one had bought him flowers before. “I’m too shy for my own good.”

 

“I think it’s beautiful. I love how easily you blush, sweetheart.” Jim replied, dropping his hand to link his fingers with Freddie’s. “Sweetness is a blessing." He said earnestly. "Now, baby doll, we simply must get on the tube and get home before my fingers fall off from the cold. Besides-” His smile turned a little kittenish. “I know how long you’ll need in the shower before I can convince you to dress.”

 

Freddie smacked his arm playfully with the back of his hand. “I’m not that bad.” He insisted.

 

“You are.” Jim kissed his temple, winding an arm around his waist. “I love it. I love you.”

 

Freddie smiled up at him then, relaxing into his hold so easily, taut muscles losing their tenseness amongst the safe grip of his lover and the last of the sunset warmth. “I love you too, darling.” He let himself be steered back towards Covent station, before freezing momentarily. “I forgot to show you!” He perked back up, grip tightening on Jim. “Come with me, darling, come with me!”

 

Jim followed him without question; he’d follow the man to the edge of the earth so long as he was treated to that tone of voice, that childlike excitement that gilded the very edges of his being. “What is it?” He asked, voice caught on a chuckle as Freddie dragged him down an alleyway. “Where are you taking me?”

 

“You’ll see!” Freddie insisted, hand sure and firm in Jim’s. He stopped momentarily as Freddie pushed him back against the wall, stealing a kiss from his lips  _ just to remember every time I walk down here. _

 

Jim was more familiar with the back entrance of the Opera House than the front; it was closer to the tube station, the one that Freddie used more often than not. However, the arches and glass panelling of the structure in front of him was instantly recognisable as that building that Freddie spent more than half of his life in, the one that Jim wanted to spend more than half of his own in. “Why have you brought me here, love?” Jim asked softly, pressing a kiss to his temple.

 

“Look up.” He whispered in his ear and Jim chuckled, raising his head to look up to the top of the building. And there, in between pillars, sat the largest portrait of his lover that he’d ever seen. 

 

His skin looked like marble, every line and curve of muscle carved and smoothed so carefully, brutally with a chisel and softly with the care of the artist. He stood with his back to the camera, fully nude, head to one side with his lips gently parted. His hands were clasped behind his back, elbows out at angles, one foot flat beneath him and the other resting carefully on the ends of his toes. Jim could see every part of his body at once, the photo so revealing and so tasteful all at once, showing everything but nothing, firm muscles under clean skin, unblemished skin. It reminded him of a Grecian statue, the kind only possible to be made by hand, every intricate curve and fold of skin diligently recreated in cold, smooth skin, hard to touch but malleable under the right fingers.

 

“Look at you.” Jim said softly; he spread his fingers without it, taking in the ridiculous curve of his waist, even buried under layers of fabric. “Look at how good you look.” He was unable to say anything else, entirely dumbfounded by how beautiful he was.

 

“Do you like it?” He asked; he was so sweet, so shy, but the smile on his face relayed his infinite trust in his boyfriend. He trusted that Jim would love it, that he would never be disparaging about his career, that he could persist with every silly little whim without risking anger.

 

Freddie trusted him to let him heal, to protect him while he healed, while he rediscovered the crazy little things that would bring him back to loving the body that he’d founded a whole career on.

 

“I love it.” Jim said softly. “Oh, Freddie, you look so incredible.” He pulled him into another kiss, careful of the roses between them. “I can’t believe you let them do it.” His smile was teasing, and Freddie didn’t tense up as he once would’ve.

 

“I can’t believe I did, either.” He said bashfully. “Olga wanted some promotional shots because I was doing Rudolph. The photographer suggested going nude.” He giggled shyly. 

 

“Did you like doing it?” He asked curiously. “Letting yourself be seen?”

 

“It feels daring.” He said softly. “But-” His blush was furious now. “People like looking. They don’t think I’m spoiled. They don’t think I’m ruined. They think I’m beautiful.”

 

“That’s because you are, baby doll.” Jim loved hearing these words; Freddie had spent a lifetime internalising the language of guilt and blame, and now he was embracing the language of love, of acceptance, of happiness.

 

“They refunded and resold the tickets when I was announced as the new Rudolph. A lot of people chose the performance dates because of the principal that played him before, but he’s injured.” Freddie rested his head on his shoulder. “It took ten minutes for the Friday and Saturday matinee and evening tickets to sell out completely. Both weeks.” He glanced up at Jim. “It’s a record. All tickets sold out in three days.”

 

Jim pressed a kiss to his forehead. “The people love you, Freddie. I love you.” He said softly.

 

Freddie leaned up for a proper kiss, this time. “I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

_ Bullets fly, split the sky; _

 

_ But that’s alright- sometimes, sunlight comes streaming through the holes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know this song then you're definitely my favourite person ever - these lyrics are getting progressively more obscure!


	64. Indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night, or a time for discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love our boys communicating and learning about each other! Sorry this has taken a whole week to upload - what a week it's been! In good news, I went to the ballet last night (which was incredible) to see Within the Golden Hour / Medusa / Flight Pattern and it has given me so much inspiration.
> 
> In other slightly less connected news, I also got a pay rise at work and am hopefully going to see the Royal's Romeo and Juliet next month!

Jim wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up running down Kensington High Street, catching glances of his lover aflame in red in the streetlights, but he’d follow the sound of his laughter to the end of the Earth. He should have anticipated the rain, really, but neither of them had thought ahead enough to even consider an umbrella - Freddie loathed carrying things in his hands, and Jim thought it wouldn’t go with either of their outfits.

 

Freddie stopped for a moment to allow him to catch up, orange light casting shadows on his face; he scrunched his nose up playfully as rainwater dripped from his hair. Jim stood just a few metres away, admiring him momentarily, before Freddie grabbed his hand. “You’ll catch your death if you stop.” He chastised, kissing Jim’s cheek.

 

“Can’t help it.” He took his scarf and twined it around Freddie’s neck; he’d insisted that he’d be fine in just his suit, but Jim could see him shivering. “You have that effect on me.”

 

Freddie giggled sweetly and snuggled into his side as they walked into the tube station. “I spent ages trying to flatten out my hair and now it’s going to curl back up again.” He pouted and Jim chuckled, grabbing a few coins from his pocket and putting them into the barrier. 

 

“Go through.” He kissed Freddie’s nose and laughed at how he twirled, never letting go of Jim’s hand. He put his own fare in and walked through with him, arm quickly wrapping back around his waist. “You’re absolutely freezing.”

 

“Maybe.” Freddie said playfully. “Because I value fashion over practicality, darling, and I was never going to wear a coat.”

 

Jim chuckled and positioned Freddie in front of him on the escalator. “Christ, how long have you lived here?” He ran his fingers through Freddie’s hair as he glanced up at him with a smile.

 

“Eight months, darling, why?” He caught Jim’s hand and kissed the knuckles.

 

“You still don’t remember to stand on the right.” He smiled teasingly as Freddie gasped, mock-horrified.

 

“I’ll have you know that I’m a proper Londoner, my dear! Don’t accuse me of that slander.” Freddie crossed his arms and pouted. “I even started reading the Standard!”

 

Jim burst out laughing. “Oh, so now you’re an educated Londoner?” He poked Freddie’s side. “You’ll be voting Heath next.”

 

Freddie gave him a look of contempt. “Don’t be absurd, darling.” He replied with a smirk. “A gay immigrant simply does not vote Conservative.”

 

* * *

  
  


“This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” Freddie smiled as Jim took his hand. Despite everything they’d been through together, how much they knew of each other, the touches that night were soft and simple, gentle as though unfamiliar, testing the waters through figures drawn on palms and tentative brushes of fingertips on cheeks.

 

Jim was sat with his back to the window, the streetlights carving his silhouette into the dark Soho evening. The water had dried from his hair, leaving it gorgeously tousled and unruly, the kind of messy that made Freddie wanted to comb his fingers through it and tame it. The lighting was low on their table, soft flickers of candlelight the main source of illumination, showing everything usually hidden in shadow. Freddie had always admired the tonality of his skin, and this evening was his time to indulge unashamedly; he could admire the ivory of his palms, the skin below his jawline, everywhere that the sun had never taken the time to explore; he could admire the soft tan of his arms that spoke of long days out in the sunshine.

 

He wanted to know all the stories.

 

“What’s the best thing that ever happened to you?” Freddie asked sweetly, sipping his wine. He had come to realise, recently, that he knew nothing and everything of his lover, that they had been so much and yet Freddie barely knew names and dates and faces, let alone anecdotes and memories.

 

Jim leaned back a little in his chair and smiled, blotting the corner of his mouth. “Besides you?” He squeezed their conjoined hands. “The first thing that comes to mind is just a silly memory, actually. I can’t think of anything serious.”

 

“Tell me.” Freddie implored; he enjoyed this realm that they were discovering together, a comfort in the calm and the mundane that said that not every conversation had to focus around the serious. 

 

“I was twenty.” He smiled over at Freddie. “That’s bizarre to say when you’re nineteen. But I was twenty, and I had been in London for three years, and I was bored of being a hairdresser, so I decided to try my luck at music. I was in the second year of my degree. And I was part of this quartet, so we set up in Hyde Park.”

 

_ He laughed as a young boy dropped a five-pound note into their hat; he thanked him earnestly, with the biggest smile in the world.  _

 

“We played some music that I’d written for my first-year exams, because I specialised in composition. It was so hot that day, and I burned my arms in the sun, but I remember how it felt. Playing for people, knowing that they were listening, that they were enjoying what I was playing.” Jim smiled just at the memories, momentarily lost in that feeling of stinging warmth and laughter and the smoothness of bow against violin. 

 

“You did music at university?” Freddie asked softly, tracing his thumb in circles over Jim’s palm. “What was that like?”

 

“Music, specialising in composition and performance. My main instrument was the piano, but I also played violin and cello.” He started laughing then. “I can play the harp too, albeit badly.”

 

Freddie looked as though he’d just discovered a treasure of the world; his face was the picture of awe, disbelief in the talent of his lover and his unknowing for so long. “I can’t believe I never knew.” He said quietly.

 

_ “I told you you’d tire yourself if you tried to warm up at that pace.” Jim’s voice was light, playful, as he glanced over at Freddie. “That song is way too fast as the first song of the day.” _

 

“I never really spoke about it.” Jim squeezed his hand. “I guess I was embarrassed, in some ways. I thought that you’d find it ridiculous how long it’s taken me to not get a job.” He shrugged. “I’m intimidated by how successful you are.”

 

“I’m not-” Freddie started automatically, but stopped himself. Soloist, to First Soloist, to Principal in the space of six months. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” The blush was back and Jim leaned over to kiss his cheek.

 

“You deserve every opportunity you’ve had.” Jim said softly. “I’m just still waiting for mine. I-” He stopped himself; he didn’t want to ruin their evening by talking about his audition with the Royal. He didn’t want to cause an unnecessary division between them. “What’s the best thing that ever happened to you?”

 

Freddie bit at his lip momentarily before smiling. “I was a lot younger. I was six. I started ballet just after my sixth birthday, and I had the tiniest little pair of ballet shoes you can imagine. I used to smooth them out before I went to sleep to keep them safe.”

 

Jim cooed at the image. “I can’t imagine how cute you were then.” He said with a chuckle.

 

“Kash was five. She was adorable.” Freddie took his last mouthful and chewed thoughtfully. “For a long time she wanted to be an astronaut. Mama bought her some glow in the dark star stickers from the shop and she stuck them to absolutely everything. My bedroom was covered in those stars for years.” Jim could see the joy in his expression.

 

_ Freddie hauled Kash into his lap, hugging her tightly to stop her from getting into any more trouble with those stickers. She had a determined passion to stick them on the lamp, but Freddie knew that that wouldn’t be a good idea. They’d never come off, and it was Mama’s favourite. _

 

_ Kash pouted and crossed her arms and Freddie couldn’t help but giggle. “Don’t frown.” He poked her cheek, stealing a sticker and placing it in the middle of her forehead. “You’re the world.” He sounded absolutely delighted with himself. _

 

_ A whole new world had just lit up before her eyes. She grabbed a sticker and stuck it to the end of his nose, erupting into the sweetest of giggles as she did so. Freddie hugged her tighter, giggling as she wriggled to look at her own handiwork. _

 

“And she-” Freddie was laughing by then. “She stuck one on my nose, and she looked at me, all earnest, and just shouted ‘You’re a star!’.” He covered his mouth with one hand. “And she used to say that to me all the time when I was scared. Whenever I had an exam or a big performance, or before I went away to school. It was like our thing.” He smiled.

 

“That’s so sweet.” Jim smiled. “When did you move away, then? Was it when you started training professionally?”

 

“I was thirteen, so I’d been dancing for about six and a half years. I did classes twice a week in Zanzibar, but you can never go professional when you train so halfheartedly. So I got a place at an academy in India, where we trained five and a half days a week, the same as I do here.” He smiled. “When did you move to London?”

 

“Just turned sixteen. Seven years ago.” He smiled. “I had a pretty shit childhood, so I wanted to start afresh. So I moved to London, told everyone I was eighteen and applied to go to university.” He chuckled. “No one checked ID in those days, so I got the job at the hairdresser and kept it while I applied and then studied.”

 

Freddie smiled. “And why London?” He asked softly.

 

“I don’t really know.” He admitted. “When we landed in Liverpool, I considered staying there, working on the boats. I knew that it would be better money and a more sure way to earn a living.” He traced his thumb over each of Freddie’s fingers in turn. “But I knew I wouldn’t study if I stayed there, and I didn’t want to be a docker my whole life. There was no chance that I’d be able to move up if I stayed there.”

 

Freddie leaned his head on one palm as their plates were taken away. “And I think I thought I’d be more accepted in London. Because it’s so big, it doesn’t matter if you have sex with a few guys and then decide that you’re straight.” He smiled. “Or, have sex with a few guys and decide that you’re definitely not straight.”

 

“You weren’t sure?” Freddie’s voice was so soft, so inquisitive. He’d never had a sexuality crisis, so to speak of; he’d never had that interest in girls that would lead him to uncertainty. 

 

“Still not.” Jim couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I know that I love you very much, but sometimes I still doubt that I’m entirely gay. I think-” He raised his glance to the ceiling, felt calmed by the lights that twinkled back at him. “I think it’s all the bullshit Catholic propaganda that they stuffed my head with. All the emphasis on man and woman completing the sacraments.” He looked down when Freddie kissed his knuckles and softened a little, smiling.

 

“I know that.” Freddie said softly. “I just- clearly it didn’t affect me as much as it did for you.” 

 

Jim leaned in then, holding his hand tightly. “It doesn’t matter now.” He said softly. “Because I know that I’m happy. For the first time in a really long while, I know that I’m happy.”

 

* * *

  
  


“This is an absolute indulgence.” Freddie looked at the cheesecake in front of him with abject delight. “I’m on stage tomorrow, I’m absolutely not allowed to be eating this right now.”

 

Jim laughed. “They should’ve chosen better performance times for you, based on when I’m taking you out.”

 

Freddie arched an eyebrow and picked up his spoon. “I’ll be sure to do that. I bet that would work wonders for casting.” He playfully bumped his foot against Jim’s shin as he took the first mouthful. “That is completely divine, darling, you have to try it.”

 

He held out his spoon and dotted cream on the end of his nose before he could open his mouth obediently. “Silly me.” Freddie’s sounded so coquettish, a side to him that Jim so rarely saw; a side that was embodied in a rustle of silk and sinfully soft fingers.

 

“I hope you plan to clean that up.” Jim challenged, a smirk on his face; Freddie laughed and leaned in, kissing his nose clean before connecting their lips momentarily.

 

Tastefully chaste, the softest touch of two lovers, something deeper ignited in the soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen Within the Golden Hour (the fic I posted today) please go and read it - it's based in the fluorescent universe, about six months after this fic ends!


	65. Tousled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication; hopes and dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies these chapters are a tiny bit bland - we have some exciting things coming up so I'm just setting them up for now! The dream is totally based on Sarah Lamb and Jonathan Lo and I have no regrets.

He was picked up almost as soon as they were through the door of Jim’s apartment, safe and close in warm arms that cradled him as he yawned. He rested his head in the crook of Jim’s neck, both arms around his neck and holding himself just-so to feel a little lighter. He smiled and kissed the skin there gently as they both toed off their shoes, letting them fall to the floor with a light clatter. Jim kissed his forehead, headed straight for the bedroom instinctively, but Freddie made a noise of protest.

 

“Play for me.” He was so sleepy, all curled up happily in the arms of his lover; Jim couldn’t imagine denying him a single thing at that moment. “Please? I want to hear you.”

 

The fantasies were starting in his mind, a thousand images of his lover playing his favourite songs in morning rehearsals and conducting orchestras and buying a new penguin suit for every night of the week. Intimidated by success, he might be, but Freddie was as incredibly involved in his boyfriend’s success as he was his own.

 

_ His hand swept the floor as he bowed, the bouquet of roses tucked under one arm. The clapping never failed to spike his adrenaline, to make him feel as though he was flying, to make all the injuries and the tears and the moments of I-can’t-do-this dissolve as though entirely irrelevant. _

 

_ As he came back up, he saw Jim climb the stairs to bow on behalf of the orchestra; he ran over, taking his hand and presenting him with a single rose from his bouquet. _

 

_ The laugh in return was beautiful and Freddie stepped back, holding out an arm to signal for his bow. As they retreated back amongst the other principals, Jim’s hand clasped his own, and he gave it a comforting squeeze when he felt the trembling of his fingers. _

 

_ A small glance. A shared smile. Home. _

 

“You’re sleepy.” Jim replied, but he paused in the hall. “I don’t want you to wake with a cramp in your neck.”

 

“Please?” The voice was so small, so hopeful. “You can play me to sleep and I won’t complain when we go to bed.” Barely a whisper, but so earnest.

 

The sound made Jim’s heart melt. “Sweetheart.” He tried to argue, but argument was futile, and they both knew Freddie would get his way. “Just for a few minutes. You need to sleep before tomorrow.”

 

“It’s only dress rehearsals.” He murmured. “It’s a week until I’m back onstage properly.”

 

“And I can’t have you falling asleep in rehearsals because we were silly and decided to stay out all hours of the night.” He lay Freddie out on the sofa by the piano and covered him with one of his old blankets. “Else I’ll never get the job.”

 

And maybe he thought Freddie was too tired to hear it, but he knew that he never missed a beat. “The job?” He asked sleepily, opening one eye to watch as Jim sat in front of the piano. 

 

“I should tell you before they do.” He reasoned, smiling at how Freddie drew the blanket up until only his nose and his curls were visible any longer. “I applied for a job at the Royal. They were advertising for a pianist, but it might be other things too, seeing as I can play violin and cello and I know how to conduct.”

 

A sleepy smile crossed his warm skin, hair tousled and in his face as he thought about working together. “That would be incredible.” He said softly.

 

“It’s a good job you think so.” He pressed down a simple chord and watched as Freddie softened. “I’ve got an on-the-job session on the twenty-ninth. I’m playing in a couple of rehearsals, and I didn’t want you to be freaked out if I suddenly turned up.”

 

The slow, soft melody was so recognisable; it was the song from Mayerling that he’d hummed for weeks after first auditioning. It felt so good to appreciate the music without having to strain his body to match, to be able to appreciate it for the sake of its own artistry. “What are you playing?” He asked softly.

 

“Two Mayerling pas de deuxs and one from Jewels.” He replied and Freddie smiled; he moved his fingers instinctively to the music, to every moment that required an extension or a tension.

 

“That might be with me.” He said softly. “I’ve got specialised training on the final pas de deux because I can’t get through it at the moment. We’re putting it down to injury.” He closed his eyes again. “I’m nearly there, now. We’ve modified a few movements.”

 

“I’m so glad you got it.” Jim smiled as he played. “You wanted that role so badly. I’ve never seen you want something more than you wanted that.”

 

Freddie giggled sleepily. “I like showing off.” He smiled. “And it’s the perfect ballet for just that.”

 

He fell quiet after a pause, and Jim assumed he was asleep; he began to slow the melody, to calm it and bring it to a close, before a voice spoke up. “How did you get around knowing nothing about ballet?” Freddie asked with a grin.

 

Jim rolled his eyes playfully. “I’ve picked up a lot from you. I can’t do it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re talking about when you use your fancy French terminology.” He teased.

 

Freddie smiled and snuggled into the sofa. “You’re going to be wonderful, darling. This is your time, I know it. The Royal works in special ways.”

 

Jim stood and picked him up carefully, bringing the blanket with you. “And now it’s time for bed.” He said softly.

 

Freddie pouted but acquiesced. He’d promised, after all. 

 

* * *

 

“Darling?” Jim’s voice was soft as he pulled Freddie closer into his arms. “I forgot to ask you something.”   
  
“Now’s not the time for a proposal.” Freddie joked and Jim laughed, pressing a kiss to his head.

 

He combed his fingers through that hair, that addictively soft hair that tickled the juncture between his throat and his chest. “I’m going to Ireland this weekend.” He said softly. “Obligatory family gathering. I was thinking that if, you know, you wanted to come-” He broke off and internally scolded himself. “I’d like you to come with me. It’s okay if you don’t want to, I mean I know we’re still new and it’s all weird-”

 

A soft kiss to the base of the neck. “Of course I’ll come, darling.” Freddie murmured. “So long as they won’t hate me.”

 

“They won’t hate you.” Jim’s promise came with a kiss to the temple. “They’ll love you, Freddie, so much. Almost as much as me.”

 

A dizzy smile, drunk off sleeplessness. “I love you too.” A long yawn, clutching closer. “Now let me sleep.”


	66. Dynamics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rehearsal, and a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading incandescent, remember that you are now reading 19 y/o baby vulnerable Freddie again and a Jim that hasn't yet realised his dreams. If you're not reading incandescent, read incandescent because it's these two idiots with small children being REALLY GOOD dads and it's very nice to read I promise

“When I say up, Fred, I mean up.” Olga smiled as she leaned back in her chair. “That was lazy, coming from you. And the pirouette, the left leg was a little-”

 

“I was breathing!” Freddie laughed as he wiped his towel over his hair. “There’s nowhere to breathe in this routine and I thought I had more time than I did.”

 

“Lesson learned.” Mary chided as she walked past, grabbing her water bottle.

 

“And the leg?” She questioned, arching an eyebrow.

 

“I missed the morning class.” He admitted. “I’m not as warm as I could be.”

 

“Give me a developpe à la seconde and one en demi.” She stood up. “Close in third and then sweep down.”

 

Freddie hummed and hung his towel back over the barre, gripping it as he took his left foot in hand. He pulled it up until he’d hit the splits, ignore the way his tired muscles protested the labour, and leaned forward to intensify the stretch.

 

“You shouldn’t be able to do that.” Olga laughed. “That should be impossible.”

 

Freddie smiled as he came back to centre, kicking his leg up before settling into third and leaning down again, hamstrings screaming at the exertion. Rubies relied on his flexibility and his power to jump as high as possible; if he couldn’t get his nose to his shin, then he was going nowhere that day. 

 

“That’s better. Can you feel it opening up?” Olga questioned.

 

“Probably too much.” He chuckled as he came back to repeat it on the right-hand side. “I don’t usually miss class, but Chris wanted to do some work for the caterpillar and I just have no time in my schedule this week. I’ve got three lots of rehearsals each day and I’m already doing the seven o’clock class to try and wriggle some room in for physical training, and now I’ve taken out Saturday by agreeing to go to Ireland.”

 

“Don’t overwork yourself.” Olga warned. “You’ll need to take class while you’re over there. Unfortunately, with Mayerling starting next week, you can’t afford a whole weekend off.”

 

Freddie nodded and smiled, stretching out the right leg. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He promised. “It’s my first chance to meet my boyfriend’s family, it seemed rude to say no.”

 

“I’ll put you in touch with Ballet Ireland, they’re not altogether dissimilar from us. Same intensity, at least.” She stood quickly and smiled at Mary. “We’ll just work on Freddie’s again, and then we’ll go from the ten and we can work out timings on yours.”

 

The knock on the door was loud, insistent, and had Freddie’s curiosity piquing immediately. “You know why I’m working so hard at the moment?” He continued their conversation as he wiped off the back of his neck. “Because one day I’ll be like- twenty-six, or something, and I’ll have two children and I won’t be able to work the way I am now. I want to try everything.” There was a look of childlike excitement on his face

 

Olga laughed and sat back in her seat. “I admire your passion, I really do. I just don’t want to wipe out the season’s best dancer so early on.” She smiled over at him. “Don’t you think twenty-six is young to start a family?”

 

“Who knows?” Freddie laughed and put his towel down. He moved towards the back of the studio as there came another knock on the door, watching Olga from one eye. As soon as Jim entered, he blushed furiously, suddenly hyper-aware of the sweat in his hair and the mismatched leg warmers he was still using to try to prevent injury. 

 

“I was hoping that Jim could do some work with Grant today.” Joby smiled. “I’d like him to get a range of opportunities, so I was planning to have him move rehearsals with Fred today because I noticed he’s got modern, classical and tap in today’s repertoire.”

 

“That’s because he’s insane.” Olga replied with a smile. “That’s fine by me. I’m taking modern and classical, but Christopher’s taking tap, so you’ll have to ask him.”

 

Jim came over and dropped a kiss on the top of his head and Freddie smiled; he was glad that they weren’t messing around with any false pretences. After spending so long pretending to be in love, he didn’t want to have to pretend to not be in love. “What’s this I hear about you overworking yourself?” Jim questioned playfully. 

 

“Guilty.” Freddie pouted, almost childlike, and then burst out laughing. “I’ll rest when I’m dead, darling.”

 

“I would usually introduce the dancer as a matter of formality, but that seems unnecessary.” Olga smiled and extended a hand, which Jim shook warmly. “I’m Olga, one of the Royal’s ballet masters.”

 

“Jim.” He replied; Freddie’s cheeks warmed with happiness as he watched them. “Prospective pianist, violinist, cellist, conductor and composer, but I’ll pretty much do whatever’s needed.” He chuckled. “I’m also Freddie’s long-term partner.”

 

“Which would explain the familiarity.” She smiled. “I hate to tear apart star-crossed lovers, but we’re on limited time because a certain someone packs his schedule too full.” She narrowed her eyes playfully at Freddie. “So Grant, if you could show Jim where we are in the music, and we’ll go from Freddie’s first jete.”

 

Dancing in front of his partner felt so different, so intimate like this; he’d seen him onstage a hundred times, played warm-ups for him, but the atmosphere here was different. Maybe he was fearing that Jim would play it wrong, both for his own and his lover’s sakes, or maybe he was more acutely aware of his eyes on every movement of his body. Maybe he was desperate for Jim to ingratiate himself with the ballet masters.

 

As he jumped, his leg almost hit him in the face; Olga stood up from her chair to watch him excitedly. “That’s it!” She insisted. “Jim, give that a music a little more-”

 

She wasn’t really sure what she was asking for: character, personality. She wanted it to talk of exoticism and excitement and that feeling in your chest upon gazing on a precious jewel, not of the well-known mundanity of rehearsal.

 

Something changed, a minute quality of vivacity, of style, and she could see the performance coming together; she held her breath, not wanting the moment to crumble around her. As Freddie came back into the pirouette, she had barely reminded him of “Left-” before it was executed perfectly, a silhouette of gorgeous clean lines with no laziness to speak of. This, this was why she chose Freddie as her principal, the man that she wanted to dance her pieces more than anyone in the whole world. He spoke, breathed, slept and lived the art form, put every inch of his personality and vivacity and that shy laughter when he was complimented into creating the perfect performance.

 

She threw her arms around him when he finished, completely unperturbed by the sweat, his broken laughter as he tried to get his breath back. She pulled back and looked at Jim; there was a musician just desperate to be found that had somehow stumbled his way into her performance space, and she wanted to use every inch of that passion that she could.

 

“Freddie- beautiful.” She kissed his temple playfully and he laughed, completely consumed by the redness of his cheeks and an undeniable shyness. “Jim, darling, that was completely perfect. You have such- such style, such passion! It was perfect. You really understood what I needed.” She beamed at him. “Now let’s go into the pas de deux.”   
  


* * *

 

“I think I might actually die.” Freddie insisted as he leaned back against the wall. “Olga, I cannot do that ending, I swear. I can’t drive it as quickly as you want me to, I’m not strong enough.”

 

“Sounds like negative self talk to me.” She crossed her arms. “You can’t do that beautiful Rubies routine and then insist you can’t do a Mayerling pas de deux.”

 

“They’re different!” He insisted; maybe his lower lip trembled just a little. He didn’t want to fail a routine he’d been practising so long. 

 

She pulled him into a hug then. “Freddie, you’re one of, if not the best principal I have. If I didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t give you the role.” She said, voice a little firmer. “I know for a fact that you can do it. You did it in your audition with a broken rib. And I know you’ve lost muscle since then, but you have to work to get it back. That’s why we have to practice this.” She insisted.

 

He eventually pulled away and nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He agreed. He’d have to work until he managed it.

 

“Jim?” Olga called. “Darling, same vague instruction. I need a little more from you; stop playing the score and start playing for ballet.”

 

And he tried, he really tried, but he couldn’t manage the whole routine still. He couldn’t get up off his knees; one foot made it, and then he fell as soon as he tried to plant the second foot. He lay on his back, winded, and stared at the ceiling, panting. “Mary?” He called. “Shit, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

 

She brought over his towel and water bottle. “No, don’t you worry about me.” She smiled and passed him the bottle. “Would I help if I leaned back in that part? Because you’re overbalancing forwards and then you’ve got nothing to break your fall because you’re holding onto me.”

 

He haphazardly mopped blood from where he’d landed on his face. “I can’t drive it.” He told Olga. “I just don’t think I’m strong enough. I can’t get the energy from anywhere.”

 

“We’re going to try once more.” She told him. She was unfazed by the blood; it wasn’t the first time there had been cuts and bruises in this show. “Jim, I want you to play the dynamics that you think. I can hear Grant telling you what to do, and I want you to ignore him.”

 

_ As the intensity picked up, so did the music; it swirled around his head like a drug, numbing and taking over his senses as he gritted his teeth to get off the ground. One foot planted, the other roughly dragged behind; he was up, up and towards the front of the stage, twirling and then letting her fall onto him. The finale, the rough throw to the ground - of course, with the concealed hand to stop her hitting her head; he was forever the gentleman - felt like an achievement, a victory. _

 

_ “I thought that would work.” Olga grinned from her chair as he applauded. “You need the dynamics to work with you, and not against you.” _

 

_ She turned to Jim with a smile. “That was amazing, darling. I’ll be putting in a good word for you.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also the same rules apply here vis-a-vis the mutual contract of I write and then you guys leave all the comments because they make me happy please and thank you


	67. Baileys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take a trip to Ireland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this even coherent? I'd be surprised

_Freddie laughed and rested his hands on Jim’s shoulders as he was sat on the kitchen counter. “I don’t want you to think it's strange.” He started. “So I thought I’d tell you before we got on the plane. The name you’ve been calling me isn’t actually on my passport.” He said shyly._

 

_Jim quirked an eyebrow, resting his hands on the outside of Freddie’s thighs. “Can I see?” He asked hopefully. “Is Freddie not your real name?”_

 

_He took it out of his back pocket and handed it over. Inside, the photo of Freddie looked so young, no older than fifteen or sixteen, and Jim smiled. “How do you pronounce it?” He asked shyly. “I don’t want to offend you by pronouncing it wrong.”_

 

_Freddie chuckled and ducked his head down a little. “It’s Farrokh.” He said softly. “Farrokh Bulsara.”_

 

_“Farrokh.” Jim repeated with a smile. “So is Freddie a shortened version?”_

 

_“It’s kind of the Anglicised version. I decided to change my first name when I moved to India, and then I changed my last name when I came to England. I decided no one would want me if my name was hard to spell and pronounce.”_

 

_Jim cupped his cheek and kissed him gently. “So why Mercury?” He asked curiously._

 

_“It’s the planet that flies too close to the sun.” He said quietly._

  


There were only really two ways this could go, Jim reasoned. He was either about to have the shyest boy to exist under his arm, or else the pretty little performer that could tease a smile out of anybody with little giggles and compliments and that oh-so-addictive blush on his cheeks. His arm was wrapped tightly around his waist as he knocked on the door, already hearing the bustle of life and energy that came with one of these family gatherings.

 

He hoped it wouldn’t spook Freddie.

 

A quick turn of the lock, and all he could smell, taste, feel was home- he stepped forward towards his mother, who immediately side-stepped him for Freddie. She squealed his name and pulled him into a hug, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

 

Freddie went absolutely scarlet, and Jim squeezed his hand comfortingly. It was as though he were trying to say _it’s okay, they’re your family too._

 

“Oh, darling!” His mother cried, pulling back and cupping Freddie’s cheeks. “Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing!”

 

“Mum-” Jim laughed and pulled him a little closer, offering him a comfort in such a strange situation. “Mum, he’s not a child.”

 

Maybe the heat radiating from Freddie’s cheeks could be perceived as embarrassment, but Jim knew that colour too well. It was the same colour as came from compliments after performances, mindless kisses before they fell asleep- Freddie was flattered. “It’s okay.” He smiled sweetly up at Jim. “I don’t mind.”

 

“Darling, you must have snatched this one out of the cradle.” His mother chastised Jim a little, but dropped a kiss on his lips all the same. “How old are you, sweetheart? Can you drink yet?”

 

The youth of his personality seemed to outweigh the definition of his form, broad shoulders and strong hands that promised Jim he wasn’t a child anymore; people often perceived him to be fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, never yet legal. “I’m nineteen.” He said shyly as they walked in and were ushered into the kitchen. “Just turned nineteen a few months ago.”

 

His brother took one look at Freddie and whistled. “And you’re already settling down with Jim? You’re missing out on life.” He said dryly. Jim wanted to argue, wanted to tell them everything that had happened leading up to this moment, but his lips stayed resolutely shut. It wasn’t his tale to tell.

 

Freddie just kept that same smile on his lips, but his hand tightened in Jim’s a little. “I’ll go wherever I’m happiest. That’s with Jim.” He responded coolly, and Jim grinned and kissed his head.

 

“A drink, darling?” Jim’s mother offered them both glasses of something Freddie had never tasted before, but it was cool, creamy, simultaneously like drinking ice cream and neat whiskey. He smiled into his glass, finding himself suddenly relaxing as he listened to the family chattering around him; he didn’t need to always be involved.

 

* * *

 

He was lounging on the sofa, Jim’s fingers tracing little patterns on his side; he was getting sleepy, though it was still early. “What do you do for a living, Freddie?” His father asked. Though Jim had been worried about his father’s reaction - he seemed to have a temperamental response to his oldest son taking other men to meet the family - he’d taken to Freddie like a duck to water. “Are you still a student?”

 

He seemed to contemplate his response for a moment, considering what was safest to say, but then he glanced up at Jim again. This family was safe.

 

“I’m a ballet dancer.” His voice came out shyer than he would’ve hoped. “I’m a principal for The Royal Ballet in London.”

 

His father arched an eyebrow in surprise. “A principal?” He replied. “I thought the minimum age was about twenty-eight?”

 

“There’s no such thing as a minimum age.” Freddie replied softly, huddling closer as Jim wrapped a blanket around them in response to Freddie’s shivering. “It’s merit based. I joined the company as a soloist from the school, and I was promoted from there.”

 

“You must be quite something to watch.” He chuckled.

 

“Take it from me.” Jim said playfully, using the security of the blanket to wrap that arm back around him; Freddie snuggled in, resting his head on Jim’s shoulders. “He’s considered to be one of the best dancers in the country, if not the world.”

 

His father whistled, clearly impressed. “What’s the training like?” He asked curiously.

 

“We do a morning class at half ten, rehearsals from twelve. We go until five thirty if we’ve got a show, or six thirty if we’re off season.” Freddie smiled. “I did a full day before we came. That’s why I’m tired, I’m sorry.” He said apologetically. “I promise I’m usually more interesting.”

 

“Don’t apologise to me for doing your job.” He chuckled. “Jim’s been with some proper scroungers in the past, always palming off whatever he’ll give them. It’s nice to know you’ve got ambitions of your own.”

 

Jim went to argue, but he stopped himself. Maybe his father’s problem hadn’t been that they were men, but the type of men that they were.

 

“Have you told your parents about your good news?” Freddie asked Jim, squeezing his free hand with a smile.

 

“Good news?” His sister asked, sitting next to his mother, who had immediately perked up. “You didn’t tell us you had news.”

 

“Freddie makes it sound far more interesting than it actually is.” Jim said, tone a little self-deprecating. “I just got a new job, that’s all.”

 

“Just!” Freddie scoffed. “Darling, there’s no 'just' about it. It’s the job you’ve always wanted.”

 

“Not another hairdressing gig?” His father replied hopefully. “You can’t be stuck in that forever.”

 

“No, no, it’s- it’s music.” Jim smiled despite himself. “The degree didn’t end up being a waste of time.”

 

“What is it?” His mother asked excitedly. “Oh, you simply have to tell us!”

 

“Calm down!” Jim laughed, dropping a kiss on Freddie’s nose. “You started this." He said playfully, and then turned to his family. "I got a job as a pianist and violinist with The Royal Ballet.”

 

His mother squealed and launched on him with a hug; Freddie grinned and moved away from him a little to make him more readily available. “He won’t show it, but he’s thrilled.” He promised her.

 

Most surprisingly, when his mother pulled away, his father pulled him into a hug. “I knew you’d make it, son.”


	68. Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming back to this is honestly like coming back to an old friend! Fluorescent is back (finally) now that I've finished my exams and sorted out my work schedule - thank you to the 60 of you that are still subscribed!

Jim had often likened Freddie to a baby flamingo: sometimes a little unsteady on his feet, but with the most wonderful balance. He had a tendency to balance on one leg as he did almost anything, just testing out the muscles in his feet and his calves. He leaned into the mirror as he traced his fingers over the material he was wearing, a small laugh bubbling to his lips as he wobbled on one foot. 

 

“This shirt is absolutely hideous.” Freddie laughed and twirled in the multi-coloured fabric; he’d found it in Jim’s old wardrobe, hidden right at the back, and the silkiness had immediately drawn him in.

 

“It’s vintage.” Jim argued, unable to hide a smile at how incredibly tiny it made Freddie look. It had been too large for him when he’d bought it, and it almost drowned his lover. In all honesty, it was hideous; red, blue and yellow silk patchwork; but Jim loved it all the same. “It’s also not yours.”

 

Freddie giggled then, bunching up the sleeves to free his hands. “You like it when I wear your clothes. I’ve seen you looking at me in them before.”

 

“A patchwork silk shirt and mismatched leg-warmers? You’re something to die for.” Jim said playfully and kissed his nose. He wrapped his arms around him from behind and looked at them both in the mirror. “Christ, you’re tiny. No wonder everyone thinks I’ve snatched you from the cradle.”

 

“I think people exaggerate. I definitely look legal.” He laughed and tucked his hair back from his face. 

 

“You definitely don’t.” Jim kissed the side of his neck. “You don’t look old enough to have a twenty-three-year-old boyfriend.”

 

“That’s because I’m not.” Freddie laughed. “Not really. If I was good and proper then I’d be the older one in this relationship and you’d be an eighteen-year-old girl.”

 

“That’s a cursed image.” Jim chuckled as he let his hands rest over his lover’s waist; sometimes he liked to spread his fingers as wide as they would go to see how much skin he could cover, as though Freddie were his favourite piano.

 

Freddie turned into the hug and let himself be swallowed up by strong, confident arms and the smell of home. “I like it here.” He said shyly. “I really like your family.”

 

“And they like you too, darling.” Jim kissed him softly.

 

“I’m not sure your brother does.” He said shyly, letting himself speak freely in the confines of the hug. “I didn’t like what he said yesterday about living my life.” He looked down, unable to meet Jim’s eyes, until a finger carefully tilted his head up.

 

“Thank you for telling me.” Jim said softly. “I didn’t like it either, darling. I already had a word with him about it.” He heard the last footsteps reach the bedroom door and the lock click for the night.

 

_ “You need to cut that shit out with Freddie.” Jim leaned with his hip against the kitchen counter. “I know you’re just joking, but it’s really not appropriate with him.” _

 

_ Finley shrugged and grabbed a can of coke from the fridge. “Sorry.” He muttered,  _

 

_ “I’m not being an overprotective boyfriend, Finn.” Jim sighed and grabbed himself a drink. “Freddie, he was- fuck, don’t tell Mum or Dad this, okay? He was really badly groomed and assaulted, and he’s not long escaped. That’s why he’s so shy.” _

 

_ “Shit.” He replied. “Shit, sorry, I thought- I thought he just hadn’t come out of his shell around us. I thought he just needed to man up a bit.” _

 

_ “It’s fine, honestly. It’s just a different circumstance. Try and treat him a bit more like you would a girlfriend of mine, rather than a boyfriend.” Jim ducked his head down, a habit he’d picked up from Freddie. “Thanks, Finn.” _

 

_ Finn wanted to make a comment about Jim’s first - and only - experience with a long-term girlfriend, but he kept his mouth shut. “Thanks for letting me know. I do- I do want to get on with him, you know? I was just trying to be funny. He seems sweet.” _

 

_ “I appreciate it.” Jim nodded. “It’s just different because he’s so vulnerable, you know? It’s a big learning curve for me, too.” _

  
  


Freddie couldn’t help but twirl in that shirt; he liked the way it clung to his body with the static. “It feels quite nice.” He acquiesced. “How come you didn’t bring this to London?”

 

“I had big dreams of getting myself an all-new wardrobe.” Jim chuckled. “It looks better on you, anyway. Most things do.” He said gently.

 

“You’re sweet.” Freddie smiled and leaned up to kiss him. “I’ve never been to Ireland before. I like the accent.”

 

“You used to point it out every time I said something ‘wrong’.” Jim teased. “And then I started saying things right, and I think it freaked you out even more, so I went back to saying them wrong.” He started to laugh as he pulled back and lay down on the bed. Freddie went back to searching his wardrobe, pulling out another shirt curiously; the hanger fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

 

“We’ll keep the whole house awake at this rate.” Jim chuckled; it all felt a little as though he were humouring a child, but it was easy to relax when it was like that. He stopped having to worry so much when Freddie slipped into such an easy mindset.

 

“It’s so exciting!” Freddie smiled, cheeks tinted champagne-pink. “There’s so much to explore.” He pulled on an old jacket over the shirt, leather lined with fur, and started to laugh. “I bet this is a look.”

 

“It’s frustrating how nice everything looks on you, darling.” Jim drawled playfully. “Although, you can’t roll up the sleeves on that one, so you might have to put it back.”

 

Freddie twisted and turned in the mirror; a faint scent of cologne rose from amongst the fibres. “I could have it tailored.” He suggested playfully.

 

“Or you could wear your own clothes.” Jim shot back with a wink.

 

“That’s an utterly preposterous solution, my dear.” Freddie chuckled. “Utter rubbish.”

 

Jim sat forward and held his hands out for his lover; as Freddie came forwards, he carefully safety-pinned the cuffs back to reveal his hands. “There we go.”

 

His blush darkened and he smiled widely. “It’s perfect.” He said shyly.

 

“Do you want to know the best bit about this house?” Jim asked, pressing a kiss to each blushing cheek. “You can go up on the roof.”

 

“That’s like a balcony but better!” Freddie said excitedly. “Can we go up?”

 

“You’ll freeze in a jacket and leg warmers, darling.” Jim laughed and grabbed a jumper. “It’s practically snowing outside.”

 

“You can warm me up.” He replied sweetly, knowing so instantaneously what would bend Jim around his little finger. “Please, darling?”

 

Jim couldn’t resist the eyes, the hint of a pout, lower lip ever-so-slightly more full than the top. “Okay, I’ll show you the roof.” He smiled and stood up, wrapping his arm around Freddie’s waist. “But tell me if you get cold. I’m not having you get sick.”

 

“My hero.” Freddie said playfully as they walked to a little set of steps at the back of the house. 

 

“Take it easy going up there. They can sometimes get a little slippery with rainwater. I once broke my nose going up here.” He rested a hand on the small of Freddie’s back just in case, always ready to catch him.

 

A thousand lights flooded his field of vision, the houses and the streetlamps and the stars in the clear night sky. Freddie had a momentary feeling of insignificance, as though he was such a small part of the web of the universe. He glanced instinctively over at Jim, who was watching his face with delight, and smiled. Maybe he played a bigger role in some webs than in others.

 

He walked over to the edge of the terrace and rested his hands on the balustrade, leaning over a little to look at the world beneath them, stretching forevermore off into the horizon. “You don’t realise how big the house is until you come up here.” Jim said quietly, walking over to him. “And when you realise that this once housed seven kids all at once.”

 

“You’re part of seven?” Freddie tore his eyes away from the cosmos and focused back on the centre of his world.

 

“Catholic parents.” He smiled and kissed his cheek. “It’s crazy, I know, the whole kids thing-”

 

“It’s not.” Freddie blurted out, before his cheeks pinkened. “Ignore me. I don’t know what I’m saying.” He shook his head and glanced up into the sky again.

 

“What do you mean?” Jim asked quietly, his heart soaring in his chest. His mind filled with a hundred thousand questions, wondering if he’d finally found the one like himself, the one that wanted a ‘normal’ family life.

 

“I just-” Freddie picked up a stone and smoothed it between his fingers. “I don’t think having kids is a crazy idea. Maybe I’d like it?” He shrugged nervously. “I don’t know, someday. I wouldn’t just write it off.”

 

Jim took Freddie’s hand and squeezed it lightly. “You’re the first person I’ve met that hasn’t put it in the category of disgusting, messy, expensive and time-consuming.”

 

“I really like children.” When Freddie’s eyes caught the light, he didn’t look old enough to be saying that. “How much do you know about planets?”

 

Jim let him change the subject. “A little. Why?” He questioned.

 

“Is that Mercury?” Freddie pointed up at the sky. “They say it looks like it flashes yellow.”

 

“I think that’s Saturn. It’s more white than yellow.” He took Freddie’s hand and carefully moved it to point at a different point in the sky. “I think that’s Mercury.”

 

Freddie looked like a child in a sweet shop. “You can’t see it in London. There’s too much light pollution.” He turned to Jim and smiled. “You know, I chose the name Mercury on my landing card. I had no idea I was going to call myself it until I landed in London. I haven’t seen the planet since I changed my name to match it.”

 

Jim smiled and kissed his head. “It’s a shame that there isn’t a planet called Hutton.”

 

“Mars should be your planet.” Freddie said immediately. “Because it’s red and red is strong and brave like you.”

 

Jim smiled. “And then, when we get married, it can be our planet because it’s the same colour as your cheeks.”

 

Freddie didn’t allow himself to think about it until long after Jim had fallen asleep.

 

_ When we get married- _

 

He smiled and curled a little closer.


	69. Snowflakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cold morning.

The first few snowflakes started to fall as Freddie’s hand touched the door. He looked around for a moment, curled up in what he hoped was Jim’s scarf, caught in awe as they danced in the early morning sunlight. Each flake caught the light, illuminating the world in soft shades of gold, and he smiled to himself.

 

Freddie blew on his cold fingers to warm them before opening the door and slipping back inside as the clock chimed seven in the morning. The house was still, completely silent, all the sane inhabitants still sleeping; his body ached to join Jim, to curl up in the warmth of their bed. 

 

He hung the scarf back up on the same peg as he’d gotten it from, thankful that no one had seen him pinch it. Coming from India, he barely owned anything sensible for temperatures like this: a couple of jumpers, some jeans, one pair of boots. That morning, he’d thrown a sweater of Jim’s over his rehearsal wear and then that same fur-lined jacket, addictively soft as he’d dressed in the four o’clock haze; he’d realised at the door that it was numbingly cold and so he’d stolen the scarf that looked like maybe Jim could own.

 

He tiptoed up the old stairs, wincing at each creak, and carefully opened their bedroom door, trying to be as silent as possible. Jim was fast asleep, face buried between pillows, and Freddie watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he undressed quickly, clothes hitting the floor with a soft thud. He kept the sweater on as he peeled back the bedclothes and climbed inside.

 

He didn’t realise he was shivering until a strong arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him in closer. Freezing toes were pressed to Jim’s thighs, cold fingers bunched in quasi-newborn fists; every inch of skin was snow-cold. “You’re freezing.” Jim murmured, opening one eye to look over his boyfriend. “Wait- let me-” His voice was thick with sleep as he grabbed a thick blanket from the foot of the bed and pulled it on top of their duvet.

 

Freddie smiled sleepily and gladly curled in closer. “Thank you.” He whispered, cold nose pressed into the crook of Jim’s neck.

 

“Where did you go?” Jim was still half asleep, and Freddie wanted nothing more than to sleep a little while longer with him. The bed was so addictively soft, every bit of fabric yielding to his body, wrapping him in an embrace that dragged him towards his dreams.

 

“Work.” Freddie smiled tiredly. “Go back to sleep.”

 

Jim tightened an arm instinctively around his waist. Freddie was cold, so cold, and his immediate instinct was to protect him, to warm him up, to keep him safe from getting sick. He was met with Freddie curling closer, thieving as much body heat as he could, thawing him out. “It’s snowing.” He told Jim, voice tinged with a childlike wonder. “I got caught in the snow.”

 

“No wonder you’re cold.” Jim murmured. He stayed half-awake until Freddie was very definitely asleep, soft rising and falling breaths rolling across his chest, and then he let himself drift off.

 

_ “Honestly, boys!” She laughed as they came into the kitchen; Freddie’s eyelids were still heavy with sleep. Jim had been awake a little while, but he’d wanted to let him sleep longer, especially having to lose three hours of sleep to a class he’d really been too tired to take. “It’s gone ten!” _

 

_ “Call it jetlag.” Jim chuckled as he flicked the kettle on. Freddie sat at the kitchen island and yawned into his hand, before ruffling that same hand through his hair. _

 

_ “I was up early, Mrs. Hutton, it’s my fault.” Freddie sounded so shy, as though he was anticipating being shouted at. “Jim wanted me to sleep more.” _

 

_ “It’s Charlotte, darling, please. You’re part of the family.” She smiled and squeezed his hand lightly. “Whatever was that for? Can I get you anything? A coffee, perhaps?” _

 

_ “I’m on it.” Jim reached into the cupboard for two mugs. “Freddie prefers tea in the morning.” _

 

_ “I have no idea how you’ve managed to find somebody so like us, dear.” Charlotte chuckled. “Did you say why it was, Freddie?” _

 

_ “Oh, I-” His cheeks pinkened and he glanced down at his hands. “I had to take class this morning. Five until half six.” He blushed even harder when she gave him a perplexed look. “It’s a ballet thing. We do warm up classes every morning. They’re kind of like technique classes.” _

 

_ “You must have been frozen, you poor thing.” She replied and then turned to Jim. “Don’t use those teabags, darling, we have nicer ones in the cupboard. Sounds like Freddie could do with a little luxury.” _

 

_ “You don’t need to do anything special for me.” He said shyly, picking his nails. “I’m easy.” _

 

_ “Don’t be silly, darling! I love to spoil new members of the family.” She kissed his cheek and smiled. “Besides, you’re by far the best partner Jim’s ever brought home.” _

 

_ Freddie took his mug gratefully and curled his cold fingers around it. Jim sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him in a little closer. Freddie blushed again and gave them both a bashful smile. “Thank you.” He voice, voice soft and sweet. “That means a lot.” _

 

They were definitely supposed to be getting ready, and they had definitely gotten distracted somewhere along the way. Freddie had been a little quieter that morning, a little more reserved and inward-focused; Jim recognised his nervousness of standing out in the family, of being the odd one out.

 

He never quite knew the things to say to make it better, but he knew one thing that would undoubtedly put a smile on his face. “I love you.” He leaned over and kissed his cheek as he brushed his teeth.

 

Freddie smiled instinctively and rinsed his mouth out to reply. “I love you too.” He said softly, standing on his tiptoes to kiss him gently on the lips. Jim rested his fingers lightly under his chin and kissed him back, slowly, lightly, as though Freddie were the most important treasure in his collection.

 

At some point, he’d picked Freddie up and sat him on the counter. Freddie’s arms were wound loosely around his neck, and his hands built up a soft rhythm on his sides, hands slowly moving back and forth to explore. It wasn’t sexual in the slightest - he’d always wait for Freddie to initiate that - but instead it was comforting, something familiar that they shared. Freddie kissed his lower lip gently, and Jim smiled into it: it was something he could always rely on him to do sooner or later.

 

Jim’s lips were soft and warm and maybe Freddie was starting to go light-headed from not breathing but he also couldn’t imagine ever pulling away. He let his fingers slowly trace through Jim’s hair as he pulled away; Freddie glanced up at him, almost a little dazed. “I love you.” Freddie said again.

 

“I am a great kisser.” Jim chuckled and tucked Freddie’s hair from his face. “There is a lot to love.” He said playfully.

 

“I don’t mean it like that.” Freddie said, completely earnestly. “It’s just- you always know, don’t you? You always know when I’m nervous or I think I’m doing a bad job or I’m worried people secretly hate me. You always know how to make me feel better.”

 

Jim smiled. “It’s all weird and new for you. I’d be surprised if you weren’t nervous.”

 

“I’ve never done family like this before. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do. If I talk too much they’ll think I’m too loud but if I talk too little they’ll think I’m antisocial. I just want to make a good impression.” He admitted shyly. “I want them to like me.”

 

“And they do like you, darling. I swear, Mum likes you more than her own children. She thinks your shyness is endearing.”

 

“I hate being shy.” He looked down at his hands. “I never used to be shy.”

 

“Being shy isn’t a bad thing.” Jim kissed the top of his head. “It’s soft.”

 

“Soft.” Freddie echoed quietly. “That’s probably a good descriptor for me.”

 

Jim smiled. “Everything from your hair to the way you talk is soft, darling. I love it.”

 

“I wish I was as brave as you.” He said quietly. “I wish I could stand up for myself.”

 

“You are as brave as me, darling, if not more. You just express it differently.” He stroked over his cheek and smiled. “I love you for who you are, darling, remember that. Every little part of you.”

 

Freddie started to smile then. “Every part?” He asked quietly.

 

“Every single part of you, my darling, even the bits of yourself that you don’t love. I can’t imagine you being you if you didn’t have every single one of your parts.” He said softly. Freddie wrapped his arms around him tightly, hugging him fiercely, and finally let his body relax.

 

* * *

 

“So where are we going?” Freddie asked, voice a little muffled by the scarf Jim had wrapped around his neck. He’d tried to go out in just that old jacket of Jim’s and some jeans, and Jim wasn’t having any of it: Freddie struggled to stay warm when it was nearly ten degrees, and it was snowing outside. He’d managed to bundle him up in a scarf and gloves, and a little part of him was totally besotted with Freddie in his winter wear.

 

“Tolka Valley Park.” Jim smiled as a snowflake landed on Freddie’s nose. “I want to show you before it all freezes up. It was my favourite place to go as a kid, because when it’s hot you can go in the river and when it rains you can go in the caves made by the waterfall and watch the world go by. I’d take you on the stepping stones, but we’d probably both break our necks.” He chuckled.

 

“I still can’t believe how much green space there is in England and Ireland. Like, even in London all the roads are lined with trees and you have Hyde Park and Kensington Park and Green Park.” His hand found Jim’s and he was momentarily bereft by the fabric between them. “Obviously, there is green space in India, but it’s all national parks and wildlife reserves and-” Freddie suddenly looked up at him, the look on his face incredulous. “I don’t know the word in English.”

 

He’d been speaking such fluent English for such a long time that it hadn’t even occurred to Jim that he would have moments that he didn’t know a word or phrase. “We call them  _ shernesthaan _ in India. Like- like reserves, but in reserves you can still walk around and you just have to not annoy the monkeys.” He laughed. “So like that, but you can’t walk through them. You have to leave the animals alone.”

 

“Sanctuaries?” Jim asked. 

 

“Sanctuaries!” Freddie nodded. “Which have leopards and tigers and you probably wouldn’t want to walk through anyway.”

 

“The closest we have to that is Dublin Park Zoo.” He chuckled. “Which is less of a sanctuary, seeing as they’re kept in cages.” He kissed Freddie’s cheek. “It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t know words in English.”

 

“I know this is kind of weird, but I think in different languages on different days.” He chuckled. “Since I moved to London, it’s obviously mostly English, but I have some days where the language doesn’t come as easily. A lot of my thoughts are like fuck, what’s that word?” 

 

Jim chuckled. “So when you don’t think in English, what do you think in?”

 

“Mostly Persian. Today it’s Hindi.” He smiled bashfully. “But my Hindi is seriously rusty, so it’s kind of a mix of the two. I think in a Persian-Hindi hybrid and then translate it into English to talk to you.” He shook his head, laughing a little. “It’s a weird process.”

 

“Can I have an example?” Jim asked hopefully.

 

“Take the sentence I just said,  _ it’s a weird process.”  _ He started. “So  _ it’s a weird  _ I thought of in Persian, which is aan 'ejab aset, but I couldn’t think of ‘process’, so I switched to Hindi, which is perkeriyaa. Then I translated the whole lot into English to say it to you.”   
  
“Doesn’t that take forever?” Jim laughed. “I have enough trouble trying to speak English as my first language.”

 

“Not when you’ve been doing it half your life. Sometimes it’s quite tiring, though, because your brain has to work hard.” Freddie swung their hands playfully. “Sometimes I forget all my English in the mornings and I nearly start talking to you in Persian.”

 

Jim chuckled. “What would you say?”

 

“Sebh bekhar 'esheq men. Chetewr khewabada?” Freddie rested his head on Jim’s shoulder. “Very domestic. It’s just ‘good morning, my love, how did you sleep?’” 

 

“I think that’s endearing.” He smiled and tugged lightly at his hand. “Come this way, darling. I want to show you the caves.”

 

Freddie followed him down a little pathway, mouth opening as he saw the waterfall. “It’s so pretty!” He said excitedly. “Oh, Jim, wait-” He tugged on his hand to slow him down. “I want to have a look.”

 

They walked towards the rocks; Jim’s arm tightened around his waist to stop him from slipping. “It’s so lovely on a hot day. You can go in and wade around in the water and all the stones are smooth at the bottom so it doesn’t hurt your feet.” He smiled at the memories. 

 

“I want to do that one day.” Freddie smiled and looked up at him. The words clung to the edge of his tongue; it felt so daring to play these games with Jim. “Maybe one day we could come on our honeymoon.” He whispered.

 

“Oh, we’ll go somewhere far more exotic than little Ireland.” Jim chuckled. “We should come here as a stopover on the way back. Flaunt our marriage.”

 

Freddie was blushing hard as he looked up at Jim. “Where would we go, then?”

 

“I think maybe a city break. Rome or Milan or Venice or Paris or Brussels.” He smiled and took Freddie back up the path. “Or maybe we could go for a lovely beach break.”

 

“Do you think we’ll be able to get married one day?” Freddie asked shyly. “I know there’s talk of it changing, and I know some people are engaged and waiting, but do you think they’ll change the laws in our lifetime?”

 

“I hope so. It’ll make life a lot easier for us.” He smiled. “Depending on what we’re planning to do.”

 

“Do you think we’ll be together that long?” He blurted out, immediately looking away. “Because you- you don’t have to make all these plans with me if you don’t think it’ll work out. I know I’m hard work.”

 

“You know when you paint a really hard painting and you spend days upon days working on it? Or you practice a routine over and over again because you want to get it right?” He smiled. “And then you go on stage and you do it perfectly and you feel like you’ve achieved so much? That’s how I feel with you.” He kissed his cheek playfully. “You’re more than a reward.”

 

Freddie hugged him tightly. “I don’t understand how you’re not sick of me, but I love you.” He smiled shyly. 

 

“Because that’s love, my darling. Love is never being tired of you.” He smiled. “Love is falling in love with your cold toes and your smile when you still have toothpaste on your chin.”

 

Freddie laughed then. “And loving me when I steal your clothes?” He said playfully. 

 

“That jacket looks unfairly good on you, darling.” He picked Freddie up and placed him on top of a ledge. “Climb up there, I’ll follow you. It should be dry.”

 

Freddie climbed up into a cave and smiled; the little space was perfectly dry, cut off from the rest of the world by a sheet of water from the waterfall. “This is so pretty.” He smiled as Jim climbed up and sat on the floor, wrapping his arms around Freddie.

 

“I brought a treat.” Jim smiled and produced a little paper parcel from his pocket. “Mum thought you might like them.”

 

“What is it?” Freddie knelt up to look in his hand. “Did she make them?”

 

“Chocolate chip muffins.” Jim smiled. “They’re still a bit warm.”

 

Freddie took one and bit into it; chocolate smudged down his chin and he smiled. “That’s amazing. It’s so sweet of her to make them.”

 

“She wants you to like her. She really likes you, Freddie.” He smiled. “She wants you to come out for drinks tonight.”

 

“I can do that. I’ll buy a round.” He rested his head on Jim’s shoulder. “I like her too.”

 

“It’s a date.” Jim kissed his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I finalised that I'll be working in Hampstead, living in Camden and studying in Covent Garden and honestly, kids, this is getting very real!


	70. Chai Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes all you need is to be accepted.

Freddie glanced over at the stairs, skin prickling at the sound of such gorgeous music. The notes seemed to form in waves and crescendos, building and collapsing over his attentive ear, such a pathway to the inner dimensions of the world it was played for. It was concert hall music, Opera House music, difficult and technical and precise.

 

“What’s that?” Freddie asked quietly, glancing over at Jim.

 

“That’s Elouise, Dylan and Elijah.” Jim’s father - Simon, as he’d finally introduced himself, told him with a smile. “Four of our children grew up to be strangely musical, seeing as neither me or their mother is musical in the slightest.”

 

“Dad, I’m sure he’s not interested in the slightest.” Jim chastised, arm a little tighter around Freddie’s waist. 

 

“No, I am!” Freddie said quickly and smiled. “So what does everyone do with their lives?”

 

“Well, as you know, Jim studied music specialising in performance and composition at the Royal College of Music in London.” Simon smiled, tinted with pride. 

 

“You never told me you went to RCM!” Freddie elbowed him playfully; he was starting to relax in the company of his family. “That’s amazing!”

 

Simon chuckled. “Finn, he’s finishing a degree in physics. He’s going to go on to do a master’s in molecular engineering. Dylan is doing an internship at the National Opera House, which finishes next year. He wanted to do music without such an academic slant.”

 

Freddie nodded, rubbing his hand along his cold arm to help warm himself back up. Jim noticed and grabbed a blanket from the edge of the sofa, tucking it around both of them with a smile. “So Jim and Finn are the only ones to have left home?”

 

“Exactly. Both left home and then promptly left the country.” Simon smiled. “We don’t mind. England’s close enough. Elouise and Elijah are both trying to apply for the Royal College of Music, too, now that they’ve seen Jim do it. He’s something of a trailblazer.”

 

Freddie laughed and kissed Jim’s cheek gently when he blushed. “Matthew is just about to take his junior cert exams, he thinks he might go into politics. Ester wants to be a singer.”

 

“I like that everyone is so ambitious. No one seems to be afraid of anything in this house.” Freddie smiled, cuddling closer as he started to warm up.

 

“There’s certainly been a lot learned in this house over the years. I had to learn a lot with Jim, change a lot of my perspectives. It’s made me a better person, and a better Christian.” He said sincerely.

 

“The ability to learn and adapt is so important.” Freddie glanced over at Jim. “I wish my father could’ve done the same.”

 

“Did your father not learn from you?” Simon asked, and Jim squeezed Freddie’s hand under the blanket.

 

“Maybe now’s not the time for this conversation.” He suggested, but Freddie squeezed back and smiled.

 

“I don’t mind. No, my father tried to beat me until I converted and when that failed he kicked me out. Both me and my sister, neither of us were any good for him. We didn’t fit his ideal model of his life.” Freddie shrugged. “So we both left.”

 

“What does your sister do?” He asked curiously. “Is she a dancer, too?”

 

“God, no.” Freddie chuckled. “She’s training at Imperial to be a doctor. She’s very academic. We always said that she should be the son and I should be the daughter.”

 

“Jim?” Elouise’s voice came from the doorway. “Will you come and practice with us? We need a fourth player for this quartet piece.”

 

Jim hummed, his fingers stroking idly over Freddie’s waist beneath the blanket. “If you bring your stuff in here, I will.” He conceded. “I haven’t got the energy to walk upstairs.”

 

“It’s barely evening!” She chastised, but she nodded. “We’ll come in here. We could do with your notes to help.”

 

Freddie smiled and kissed him lightly. “I’m excited to listen. You so rarely play for me.”

 

Jim chuckled and stood up, laying the blanket back over Freddie. “Do you want me on piano, violin or cello?” He asked, perching on the arm of the sofa. 

 

“Piano.” Dylan replied immediately. “Because it’s the timing that’s the problem, and you can keep us in time on the piano. Maybe when we get better you can move to the violin.”

 

“I prefer the piano.” Jim chuckled and lifted the heavy lid of the grand piano, propping it up carefully. “How long since she’s been played?”

 

“Not that long. She was retuned last week because she’d fallen out of tune.” Elijah said as Jim pressed down a chord. Freddie lay out over the sofa, watching as they all set up in that corner of the lounge; he knew he had to resist the urge to dance, to twirl and spin as he would do at home.

 

He listened to them play for a few minutes, impressed by how well they played together. “This is simply, torture, darling.” He said softly, glancing over at them and smiling. “This is Florimund from Act Two, isn’t it? After he’s left alone onstage.”

 

“Your repertoire knowledge outstands me.” Jim chuckled. “Yes, darling, it is. You should dance along.”

 

“Oh, no.” Freddie blushed modestly. “I wouldn’t want to distract you, darling.”

 

“No, go on!” Dylan smiled. “It’s the best test for a musician, whether or not a dancer can stay in time to our music.”

 

“I’m not even sure I can remember the steps.” He said shyly. 

 

“We’re none the wiser.” Jim smiled. “Give it a go if you want to, sweetheart.”

 

“Let me go and get my shoes.” He hid his blush as he quickly turned from the room, his smile half excited and half nervous. “It’s too hard to do in socks.”

 

“He’s so shy.” Elouise smiled as he left. “He’s so sweet, Jim, you did well.”

 

“He doesn’t ever like to seem like he’s bragging about his talents. He’s almost too aware of the effect on other people.” He said simply. “He prefers to be modest.”

 

“He’s just really nice.” She laughed softly. “So much better than those other guys. I hope you two stay together.”

 

“I’m not promising anything.” Freddie said quickly as he sat on the sofa and rolled the baby blue satin over his toes. “I’m terrible at remembering old ballets.”

 

“That’s a straight lie, Freddie. You’re amazing at remembering them.” Jim insisted as he picked up his violin. “Honestly, honey, calm down. It’s only in front of your family, anyway.”

 

_ Your family.  _ Freddie smiled to himself and nodded. “I suppose you’re right, darling.” He said softly. “Go on, then, I’ll see how much of this I can remember.”

 

Freddie was faintly aware of eyes on him as he stretched out into the first arabesque en penche; his muscles ached, but it was the happy ache of familiarity, of a move often forgotten for its simplicity. The difficulty wasn’t in the moves themselves, but in repeating them one after another, maintaining his balance despite the temptation to rock back onto his heel.

 

He couldn’t help but smile as he bounced from one foot to the other, his expression jarring with the melancholy expression of his body. Sometimes he felt as though he had an old soul, hardened with experience; it was so refreshing to act like a young boy, to dance as though no one watched, to hop and bounce like a sweet, fresh, innocent and inexperienced young man. With Jim, he felt as though he could afford to regress a little: his guard didn’t have to be consistently maintained. He could afford to be playful, to be childish, to be sweet and shy; when he was with Jim, it wasn’t strange. People thought his shyness was endearing, thought that his hiding behind his boyfriend proved his trust in his lover.

 

He didn’t mind being shy if being shy meant being sweet. 

 

“See, darling?” Jim teased as Freddie came to a standstill. “You do remember it. I knew you would.”

 

When Freddie smiled, Jim could see that seven-year-old with his first pair of ballet shoes, grin lopsided as he was taught how to adjust the drawstring. He could see a man letting down his guard, loving the people around him and learning to love himself.

 

_ “Smile, Freddie!” Jer laughed as she took a photo of him. “Show me your first position.” _

 

_ He smiled at the camera, his teeth fully on show, as he held his body proudly for the camera. He wanted the world to see his shoes, to see that he’d found his place in the world. He’d found the place in the world where people thought he was a natural. His eight times tables might be hard, and his English might be broken, and he might not be able to understand something when he read it the first time, but he was beautiful, and that was what mattered. _

 

“I love you.” Freddie whispered in his ear, not wanting to embarrass Jim in front of his family.

 

Jim chuckled and pecked his lips lightly. “You’re welcome to keep dancing, but don’t think you have to if you’re tired.”

 

“I can’t not when you’re playing like this.” He laughed.

 

“That was gorgeous, Freddie.” Charlotte smiled from the doorway. “Jim, darling, when we come down for Elouise’s open day you simply must get us tickets to the ballet. I want to see your boyfriend perform properly.”

 

Jim’s family had always been reluctant to use the term ‘boyfriend’ in relation to Jim. As Irish Catholics, they still sometimes found it a difficult pill to swallow that their eldest son was gay; they preferred ambiguous terms such as ‘partner’ so as to not draw attention to his sexuality. To hear them refer to Freddie openly as his boyfriend made Jim’s heart soar: it felt to him as though they accepted their relationship in its entirety, the love and the support and the sex and Freddie himself.

 

Freddie, in the space of a day and a half, had found himself at the heart of a brand new family.

 

* * *

 

“I like them.” Freddie smiled around bubbles as Jim kissed the back of his neck, making quick work of his shirt as the shower warmed. “I like your family, darling, they’re so nice to me.”

 

“You’ve got them wrapped around your little finger. You have that way with people.” Jim’s fingers reached the hem of Freddie’s shirt and went to pull it up.

 

“Hang on-” He murmured distractedly and spat toothpaste into the sink. Jim tugged more insistently and Freddie laughed, batting at his hands. “I said hang on! I need to go and get some water, I’ll die of dehydration otherwise.”

 

“You’re going in the shower.” Jim muttered, lips still working over his neck. “Drink from the sink.”

 

“Don’t be a heathen.” Freddie replied immediately and laughed as he moved past his boyfriend. “I’ll be back in two seconds.”

 

He ran down the stairs quickly, straight into the kitchen, and grabbed himself some water quickly. He was getting sleepy, but he wanted to stay awake for as long as possible - he’d be asleep in seconds with Jim washing his hair for him if he didn’t have anything to help wake him up.

 

He gulped it down quickly, watching as snowflakes landed against the window, and smiled. Ireland, though he hadn’t been there long, felt more homely than India or Zanzibar ever had; the fire burned in the grate, keeping the house warm; every bed had its own patchwork quilt; the old windows groaned with the breeze and encouraged you to curl together for warmth. The big house, the Dublin suburbs, was a perfectly comfortable place to live, and Freddie dimly hoped that he could come back again.

 

“Have you been making out with Jim?” Finn asked as he walked into the kitchen, placing the kettle on the stovetop.

 

“Something like that.” Freddie replied dryly - it had been exactly that. “Why?”

 

He wasn’t sure what he thought of Finn, but he was more wary of him than he was of Elouise, Elijah and Dylan. “Your hair’s all messy.” Finn turned to him and smiled. “I’m only joking around. I seem to be making a bad impression.”

 

“No, not at all.” Freddie replied sweetly. He would never admit that to a member of Jim’s family. “You seem nice.”

 

“I wanted to apologise, actually, for-” He looked down and scratched the back of his neck shyly. “For whistling at you yesterday. It was out of order, I knew that you were shy, and I did it anyway.”

 

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Freddie’s speech sometimes replicated that robotic list of phrases he’d used with Paul, and this was one of those times. “Really.”

 

“It’s not nothing.” Finn shook his head. “It was rude, and it objectified you. Jim- he told me about your past.” At the horrified look on Freddie’s face, he sped up his speech. “He didn’t tell anyone else! Just me. I haven’t told anyone. He was explaining why you weren’t so up for that kind of teasing.”

 

Freddie was stuck somewhere between grateful and humiliated. “I- well, thanks, I guess.” He said awkwardly, taking another sip of his water.

 

“I’m serious.” Finn came a little closer. “Jim’s really turned a corner since he met you. We were- we were pretty worried about him, you know, some of the things he was doing. He’s settled right down since he started sending us letters about you.” He reached into the cupboard for a mug and paused momentarily. “I’m making tea, do you want one?”

 

He proffered a mug as a quasi-peace offering and Freddie couldn’t help himself but smile. “I’ll have one, please.” He nodded. “I’m not here to mess around, you know?” He said quietly.

 

“What do you mean?” Finn asked distractedly.

 

“I know some of those guys were a bit shit to Jim. I’m not- I’m in it for the long run. I’m genuine when I say I’m here to stay.” Freddie replied shyly.

 

“I hope you are.” Finn handed over the mug. “I hope you’re together for years. I think you’re good for each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie's dance (another McRae): https://youtu.be/38MThq60EYc


	71. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the most Jim has ever felt supported by his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REUPLOAD because ao3 wasn't listing this as updated (thanks devs)

Freddie sat up in bed, glancing at the darkness behind the curtains. It was still the middle of the night, silence throughout the house, and he was so anxious that he was struggling to sleep; with the first performance of Mayerling in two days, his mind was filled with what-ifs. He was frightened by a phantom pain in his ribs: he knew he was searching too hard for it and being concerned by what he was actively looking for, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He was frightened that he wasn’t strong enough, that he’d make a fool of himself on stage, and that would be his Royal career over.

 

He picked at his nails, trying not to let himself spiral down into the negatives; he’d done it in the rehearsal room, which meant he could do it onstage. Even more so, the pianist could always slow down if they saw he was behind, or he could speed up little parts that were easier to get back to the right tempo. He didn’t want to let Mary down for her principal debut, her first chance to experience all the excitement of the audience for her alone.

 

For a moment, he wished he was in London, wished he could go to Olga with all his anxieties and let her soothe them.

 

“Freddie?” Jim’s voice was rough as he looked over at his boyfriend. “Are you feeling alright, darling?”

 

He thought for a moment of lying, but he couldn’t bring himself to. “I can’t sleep.” He admitted, glancing over with a self-deprecating smile. “I can’t seem to get my brain to shut up.”

 

It wasn’t an uncommon problem for Freddie; he seemed to spend half his time at night drinking water or doing laundry or something equally not stimulating. Here, though, he didn’t want to wake anyone else up, and he was left trapped in the little bedroom.

 

“How can we help you?” Jim asked, carefully moving him so that he was laying back down again. “What helps you sleep?”

 

“Sleeping tablets.” Freddie smiled wryly. “But I’ve got to be awake for ballet in like an hour and a half and I’ll sleep through my alarm if I take them but if I don’t take them I’ll be awake literally the whole night because I haven’t slept at all-”

 

“Fuck ballet for now, Freddie.” Jim said gently. “You don’t have to go to that ridiculously early class.”

 

“But-” Freddie started and Jim carefully rested a finger against his lips.

 

“I’m serious, darling. Your health comes before anything else, and it’s not safe for you to be dancing on an hour and a half of sleep.” His voice was a little firmer now; sometimes Freddie needed someone to make a decision for him. “If you do that, then you’ll be exhausted by the time you get on stage on Tuesday, and then you won’t be at your best. It’s more important that you rest your body so you’ve got as much strength as possible.”

 

Freddie paused but then nodded. “You’re right.” He said quietly. “So I can have the day off?”

 

“Definitely.” Jim gently kissed his forehead. “You’ve worked so hard for Mayerling, sweetheart, and you don’t want to burn yourself out right before you start those performances. We don’t want you getting injured again. Besides-” He smiled. “Sundays in the Hutton household are lazy days.”

 

“I can’t remember the last time I had a lazy day.” Freddie smiled shyly. “Have you got a radio in here?”

 

“Your bedside table.” Jim gently ran his fingers through Freddie’s hair. Freddie grabbed the radio and programmed it to an Irish station, something he couldn’t understand and start thinking about but enough to give him some background noise.

 

“Is that okay?” Freddie checked with him. “It helps make my brain a bit quieter.”

 

“Of course it is.” Jim settled back down in the bed and pulled Freddie closer. “Try and get some rest for me, sweetheart.”

 

Freddie nodded and closed his eyes. He was still worried about Mayerling, but Jim was right; working himself to the bone wasn’t about to make him any stronger, any faster, or any fitter. Jim gently rubbed little circles on his side, and Freddie found himself getting a little drowsy; he yawned and snuggled closer, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend to keep him nearby.

 

Jim smiled when his breathing evened out, when those heavy eyes stayed closed, when tight fingers in his shirt went lax. He dragged an extra blanket over both of them and pressed a kiss to Freddie’s forehead before falling back asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Does Freddie prefer coffee or tea?” Charlotte asked as Jim leaned on the counter. “It might be nice if you take him something.”

 

“He prefers tea. English breakfast, if you have it, black.” He replied as he got his own mug from the cupboard. “Though I might let him sleep a bit longer. He was up half the night, only got to sleep at about half two. He’s probably exhausted.”

 

“Oh, poor darling!” She turned to Jim. “Is he okay? He’s not sick or anything?”

 

“He-” Jim faltered, trying to work out how to phrase it in a way that wouldn’t give too much away. “He’s been through quite a lot of stuff in his past. He suffers from quite bad anxiety, and sometimes it keeps him awake. He does most of our laundry at about three in the morning.” He smiled a little, trying to be reassuring. “We’re working through it.”

 

“Is that why he feels so young?” She asked. “It feels as though he’s very dependent on you.”

 

“He was in a bad situation when I met him. In with the wrong crowd, that kind of idea. Sex and drugs and starvation.” He glanced over his shoulder to check the doorway quickly. “His last boyfriend wasn’t good to him.”

 

She nodded. “Explains why he’s so shy. I assume he finds it hard to trust people?”

 

“Quite the opposite, actually. He trusts people really easily.” Jim said quietly. “But he doesn’t like to say the wrong thing, so he tries not to say much unless he knows that it’ll come across as sweet. He’s very quick to forgive major things as though they’re petty arguments.”

 

“Some people are so sour.” She shook her head. “Poor darling. Jim, sweetheart, you better not mess that boy around in the same way.” 

 

“I don’t intend to.” He smiled a little shyly as he filled the teapot. “Mum, I’d- I’d like to marry him one day.”

 

She threw her arms around her son and smiled. “See, I knew I brought you up right. You know a good man when you see one, and you know how to treat him well.” She kissed his cheek. “Well, darling, you have my blessing.”

 

“Who’s getting married?” Elouise asked as she walked into the kitchen, yawning behind her hand. Upon seeing Jim, she smiled. “This better not just be news for Mum.”

 

“No, no, I-” He laughed a little. “I’m not engaged or anything. I’m not brave enough to ask. We were just discussing future plans.”

 

“Disappointing.” She said playfully and grabbed her own mug. “You better be marrying Freddie, and you have to make me a bridesmaid.” She kissed his cheek. “Though I guess there’s no bride for me to be the maid for.”

 

Jim chuckled. “You can be the groomsmaid, darling.” He joked and poured her a mug. “Can you grab the milk?”

 

She reached over to the fridge and Jim caught sight of Freddie coming down the stairs. He looked bleary-eyed, still half asleep, wrapped up in black rehearsal tights, his leg-warmers and that ridiculous silk shirt that he’d barely taken off; Jim couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “Good morning, sweetness.” He said softly.

 

Freddie looked over and smiled sleepily. “I could smell tea.” He wandered over to Jim and laughed as he swept up in a hug. “You’re nice this morning.” He said happily.

 

“When am I ever not nice to you?” Jim chuckled and pecked his lips lightly. 

 

“Point.” Freddie closed his heavy eyes for a moment and yawned. “Am I allowed one?” He asked hopefully.

 

“Anything you want, sweetheart.” Jim smiled. “Black?” He asked as he grabbed another mug.

 

“Please.” He replied sweetly. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

 

Charlotte loved watching her son with Freddie, the difference it made to the way he acted. Jim was so defensive, so untrusting of the world, so scared to let people in in any kind of intimate way; with Freddie, though, he seemed to soften. With Freddie, he stopped hating the world; he could put his energy into helping him, protecting him.

 

“Well, we have church at midday-” She started and Freddie immediately noticed Jim tensing beside him. He thought back to what he’d said about faith before -  _ bullshit Catholic propaganda _ \- and quickly considered how to get him out of going.

 

“Oh, I-” He blushed a little and squeezed his boyfriend’s hand. “I can’t come to that, I’m afraid. I’m Zoroastrian, it’s against my faith. We have certain practices that we have to adhere to that aren’t accounted for in other faiths.” He looked up at Jim. 

 

“Zoroastrian?” Dylan questioned, sitting up on the kitchen island. “What’s that?”

 

“It’s an ancient Persian religion.” Freddie replied. “It focuses on the dualistic cosmology of good and evil and the final defeat of evil. We worship  Ahura Mazda.”

 

“I can’t believe you know the term dualistic cosmology but you couldn’t remember the word for sanctuary.” Jim chuckled and kissed his cheek.

 

“That’s so fucking cool.” Finn smiled. “So do you have like- a Jesus?”

 

“Ashu Zarathushtra.” He bit his lip shyly. “That’s the Persian name. I think- I think he’s called Zorothustra in English, but I’m not sure.”

 

“Zoroaster?” Elouise suggested. “I think you mashed Zoroaster and Zarathustra.”

 

“That’s it!” Freddie smiled. “Zoroaster is the English name. Zarathustra comes from Avestan.” He turned to Jim. “That’s the other language I know, but I can only read and translate it. Younger Avestan.”

 

“There’s nothing you don’t know, darling.” He chuckled. “El, how did you know that?”

 

She shrugged and smiled. “Persia was a cool place. I read up about it.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, darling!” Charlotte smiled. “Jim, would you mind staying home in that case? I wouldn’t want us to leave Freddie all on his own for hours.”

 

Jim rolled his eyes. “He’s still not a child.” He chuckled. “But it would be my pleasure.”

 

* * *

 

“Did you do that deliberately?” Jim questioned, skimming his hand up and down Freddie’s chest. He was laying on him on the sofa, back to Jim’s chest, heavy and sleepy and content.

 

“Do what, darling?” Freddie asked softly, wriggling when Jim found the ticklish spot on his ribs.

 

“Get me out of going to church. Does it actually matter if you go or not?” He smiled devilishly as he pressed harder on that spot.

 

Freddie squealed and wriggled away from him. “Maybe.” He laughed as he sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “I felt you tense and I remembered that you don’t like Catholicism or its doctrines. I thought I could help.”

 

“So it doesn’t matter?” He grinned and leaned over to kiss him.

 

“Not in the slightest.” Freddie smiled as he kissed back. “I used to pretend to be Sikh when I was in India because it was safer. We abandoned our religious dress code when it got dangerous, and then we lost pretty much all our places of worship except a few in Iran.”

 

“Thank you.” Jim kissed him long and slow. While Freddie was distracted, he trailed his fingers back to that spot; this time, though, he was on top and Freddie couldn’t move away.

 

When he pulled away, Freddie was breathless and flushed, giggling brokenly. “How long until they all get back?” He asked softly.

 

“Hours.” Jim leaned in, lips almost touching. 

 

“We’ve got time, then.” He whispered, cupping Jim’s cheek.

 

“I thought you’d never ask.” He grinned as Freddie wrapped his legs around his waist. “Let’s go upstairs, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more Ireland chapter - I've definitely gotten over excited!
> 
> Thanks to Erin for the comment on the last upload - feel free to comment again! ;)


	72. Staircases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim always seems to know how to make him feel better.

_ Too late, my time has come; _

_ Sends shivers down my spine, body’s aching all the time; _

_ Goodbye, everybody, I’ve got to go, _

_ Got to leave you all behind and face the truth- _

_ Mama, I don’t want to die, _

_ I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all. _

 

The house was silent as Freddie’s fingers fumbled over new chords, mind wrapped in a haze of creating that could only be spurred by those awful nightmares. His second time with Jim, and the second time that he’d woken in a haze of panic and bad memories; this time, though, he’d slipped out of bed and down the stairs to work through it alone.

 

The piano standing in the centre of the lounge had been too tempting. Ever since he’d left Paul that first time, the same six chords had repeated through his mind, a mantra whenever worrying thoughts came back, a song of defiance but also of heartbreaking honesty.

 

He leaned forward, elbows hitting the keys heavily as he ran his hands through his head. The problem with his mind was that he would never be cleaned of Paul, not even through court cases and incarceration. He could never, ever, imagine a future with Jim, not even when he strained his mind and his imagination to their maximum. To hear him talking about marriage, thinking far, far into the future, hurt him too badly.

 

Freddie could only ever imagine a future with Paul.

 

He couldn’t imagine a future with Jim because it wouldn’t happen; he would never be normal enough to hold down a relationship long enough. Every touch was bittersweet, in some way a form of self-punishment, because every touch brought them closer together and made it more painful when he’d inevitably be pushed away. He let himself be wrapped up in a haze of love and wonder and rediscovering gentle touches, even though he knew it would hurt more when thumbs on cheekbones became bruises and gentle touches to his jawline became punches. 

 

It was easy to imagine a future with Paul because he knew how it would play out. He’d quit ballet to become a proper housewife, cleaning dishes and making meals that he’d rarely eat in order to stay slim. He’d endure the beatings until it became too much and he had to go to the hospital; he’d come up with a thousand excuses and return until one day he’d have to have an overnight stay. He’d promise to be more gentle, would pull him back in with soft words and honeymoon love, and the cycle would continue until one day it wasn’t just an overnight stay. Maybe it would be self-inflicted, it would be the drugs, or maybe it would be inflicted upon him with a knife or the brute force of a steel-capped boot.

 

He covered his mouth as tears burned behind his eyes; he was frightened to go back, but he was frightened to stay. He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to watch this idealism crumble before him; he didn’t want to be hurt anymore, but he couldn’t escape the way his own mind would hurt him. 

 

Sometimes he considered it would be easier to have never been born at all.

 

His heart ached because he wanted everything to work out with Jim so badly, wanted it to continue like this forever, wanted to feel happy and healthy and loved. He wanted to marry him, wanted to wear his red suit and feel that safety and security that he’d always lacked; he wanted children, so many little faces to look after and love and cherish; he wanted someone to work beside and love and live with for the rest of his life. 

 

But Jim wouldn’t want him if he couldn’t even have sex without panicking afterwards.

 

He felt like he was choking on his own breaths, his chest on fire; he pinched his nose and held his mouth shut but the sobbing barely got any quieter. He panicked more, not being at home and being hyper-aware that someone could come through the door at any second, could see him spiralling in his own head with fear-

 

“Freddie?” The voice was soft from the doorway and Freddie only cried harder, his whole body shaking; it wasn’t the voice he wanted, the voice he needed. “Freddie, shit, are you okay?” Finn came forwards, resting a hand on Freddie’s shoulder. 

 

“I didn’t- I’m not-” He stuttered, not even sure of what he was trying to say; his breathing was uneven and the words sounded strangled amongst violent sobs.

 

“Jim?” Finn called up the stairs; Freddie grabbed his wrist, seized with terror. He didn’t want everyone else in the house knowing about this. “Jim!” He called louder, carefully walking to the door to block Freddie from view; he knew what those desperate touches meant.

 

“Is everything okay, darling?” Charlotte asked, taking off her gloves. “What do you need Jim for?”

 

“Not now, Mum.” He said distractedly, glancing up at Jim when he heard the top of the stairs creak. 

 

“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked, a little taken aback. “This is my house, Finn, and-”

 

“I know!” Finn sounded exasperated. “But this really has nothing to do with either of us, okay?” He turned to Jim and gestured towards the lounge. “I think Freddie needs you.”

 

“Freddie?” Jim asked softly as he walked into the lounge; Freddie was hunched over on the piano stool, still sobbing brokenly, hands twisted roughly in his hair. “Freddie, sweetheart, what is it?” He asked gently.

 

He sat on the floor next to him and held his arms open; Freddie crawled into his lap, knees planted either side of him, face hidden against his neck. “Darling, come on, breathe for me.” He said softly. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart, deep breaths.”

 

Jim carefully rubbed his back. “Is this about earlier?” He asked when Freddie had begun to calm down. He received a small nod in reply and gently kissed his temple, pulling him in closer. He lay back on the floor so that there could be more points of contact between the two of them and felt the way that Freddie started to soften again. “Freddie, sweetness, you can always wake me up when you need me.”

 

“I didn’t want you to know.” He croaked, voice hoarse and throat sore. 

 

“Why?” He asked quietly, running his fingers through Freddie’s hair.

 

“You won’t want me if I can’t even be normal.” He whispered, voice still thick with tears.

 

“My darling, I’ll always want you.” He promised. “I’m so proud that you’re trying, but it’s okay that we haven’t quite succeeded yet.” He said soothingly. “It’s natural that it makes you think of those bad times. One day, it won’t anymore.”

 

Freddie nodded, breathing finally evening out when he was sure that Jim wasn’t angry. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, finally uncurling a little so that Jim could see his tear-smudged cheeks.

 

The pads of his thumbs were gentle as they wiped under his eyes. “No need for sorries, sweetheart.” He promised. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Tired.” Freddie said quietly. “And stupid.”

 

“You know the best thing about these old houses?” He asked softly as he sat up, holding Freddie tight as he stood up. “They have two staircases. Shall we go and lie down for a little while?”

 

Freddie’s nod was sleepy, resting against his collarbone; he was already half-asleep by the time they reached the bed.

 

* * *

 

A cup of tea and a kiss on the cheek were sometimes the most effective way to make Freddie smile. He was leant against the kitchen counter, dressed in simple blue jeans and a tank top, his hair freshly washed by Jim; he’d cheered up almost as soon as he’d gotten properly clean. 

 

“We were going to go and have a couple of drinks down at Grandpa’s pub, boys.” Charlotte smiled. “You’re very welcome to come along with us.” She pulled on her boots and Freddie smiled over at Jim.

 

“Shall we go?” He asked softly, leaving it open to Jim to say yes or no; he didn’t know what Jim’s relations with the rest of his family were like.

 

“It’ll be nice. He’ll love you.” He smiled and squeezed Freddie’s hand. “Elijah, can Freddie borrow one of your coats?”

 

“Wouldn’t one of Dylan’s fit better?” Charlotte questioned. “They’re about the same age. Elijah’s a bit too young.”

 

“But Freddie weighs the same as an eight-year-old girl.” He said playfully. “I think Eli’s would fit better.”

 

“I’ve got that rainbow one that might fit him.” Elijah smiled. “Let me grab it.”

 

“You don’t have to do this for me, darling.” Freddie said shyly.

 

“Well, we’re not having you freeze to death.” Finn squeezed his shoulder lightly as he walked past, and Freddie smiled involuntarily; it felt as though some rift between them had healed. He could easily have made a spectacle of him, but his respect had made Freddie reconsider him as a person.

 

“Try this on.” Elijah handed him the jacket and smiled. “It should fit you.”

 

The coat was snug and perfect and the sight of Freddie all bundled up made Jim’s heart feel warm. They held hands on the walk, though gloves prevented them from properly touching each other. The whole time, Jim expected dirty looks from the people they passed, but no one seemed to mind that he was holding hands with another boy.

 

“I’ll buy the first round.” Freddie said with a sunny smile as they walked in. “As a thank you for having me this weekend.”

 

“You’re such a darling.” Charlotte kissed his cheek. “You don’t have to do that for us. We’ll bankrupt you!”

 

“Oh, you won’t- you won’t bankrupt me.” Freddie smiled shyly. “It’ll take a little more than that.”

 

“They should know our usual orders behind the bar.” Dylan smiled. “Thanks, Fred.”

 

“Does he earn a lot, then?” Simon asked as Freddie walked away. “What’s his salary?”

 

“I don’t know.” Jim shrugged. “We don’t talk about money. He’s well-off enough to afford to rent a place in Kensington with his friends, and that’s just over five grand a month between them. I think he pays more, though, because his friends are students.” He bit his lip shyly. “He’s paid my rent a couple of times when I’ve been short at the end of the month, and mine’s just over two grand. He usually goes halves.”

 

“That’s what, four grand a month on rent?” Dylan whistled. “I didn’t realise London’s so expensive.”

 

“The bit we live in is.” He shrugged. “We don’t have to live there, but he likes it there.”

 

“How the other half lives.” Finn chuckled.

 

“He works really hard for it. His family didn’t give him anything when he first moved over here. He couldn’t really even afford food.” He smiled a little. “We went for a walk a few months ago and he was pointing out some places that he thought were nice. I haven’t told him yet, but I’ve actually put in an offer for a two-bed place that overlooks the river. It’s one of his Christmas presents.”

 

Charlotte whistled. “And where did you get the money to do that?”

 

“I saved a lot of my inheritance from Grandma.” He shrugged. “And I got a call this morning to tell me I got the job at the Royal.” He couldn’t begin to hide his smile as Elouise hugged him from the side.

 

“Jim!” Charlotte leaned across to kiss him. “Oh, well done, darling! How much is that?”

 

“It’s just under five hundred thousand a year.” He smiled. “Because I’m effectively working three jobs as a pianist, violinist and composer. If I start conducting then it’ll go up again.”

 

“What are we talking about?” Freddie asked, wandering back over with a tray of drinks.

 

“Our salaries, darling.” Jim smiled warmly. 

 

“Oh, I’ve started that conversation.” He chuckled. “Did you tell them mine?”

 

“I don’t know how much you get. You never told me.” He moved over so that Freddie could sit down.

 

“It works out at just under ten thousand a performance.” Freddie smiled. “A bit over a million and a half per year, averaging six performances a week for thirty weeks.”

 

Jim was taken aback; he’d known, of course, that Freddie wasn’t poor, but he’d thought that their salaries would be closer. “I never knew it was that much.” He nudged Freddie playfully.

 

“You could’ve just asked me. I don’t keep it a secret, but I don’t like to boast about it.” He smiled. “Most of it will probably go to a house, anyway.”

 

“What are the hours like, then, for that kind of money?” Simon asked curiously.

 

“Eight hours of rehearsals and two and a half of performances per day, and I work anywhere between five and a half and seven days a week.” Freddie blushed shyly. 

 

“Sounds like hard work.” Ester murmured.

 

“It is.” Freddie smiled. “You have to love dancing to enjoy it.”

 

“Have you told Freddie your news?” Simon asked Jim with a smile, echoing what Freddie had said only a few days ago.

 

“Hmm?” Freddie asked, smiling sweetly. “What is it, darling?”

 

“I got the job at the Royal.” Jim smiled. “Olga phoned personally.”

 

Freddie gasped and his face lit up. “Well done!” He squealed and threw his arms around Jim. “I can’t wait for us to work together!”

 

* * *

 

“Why are we watching this?” Freddie whispered. He was sat in Jim’s lap, the rest of his family crowded around on sofas and beanbags; there were more members of his family than he could ever remember the names of. The two boys, though, had found themselves an armchair in the corner; Jim was more than happy to recline with a lap full of Freddie Mercury.

 

“No idea.” He murmured, stroking his thumb idly back and forth over Freddie’s hip bone. They were watching some terrible horror film, but Jim was only half paying attention: after telling his family about the possibility of their new family home, he was almost desperate to tell Freddie, too.

 

“It keeps making me jump.” Freddie laughed shyly. He was jumpy at the best of times, but at least here he could feel assured that everyone was the same. “They keep coming out of nowhere!”

 

Jim chuckled and kissed his neck lightly. “That’s the idea of a horror film, Freddie.” He said with a playful eye roll.

 

“I know, but like, I mean-” He cut himself off with his own squeal as he was spooked again; this time, though, he jumped badly enough to slip off the arm of the chair, landing on the floor in a heap of long legs and dark hair. “Fuck!” He laughed.

 

“Freddie!” Jim chuckled and leaned over the edge of the chair. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” He asked as the family started laughing.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” His cheeks were pink as he looked up at him. “I shouldn’t have leaned back so precariously.”

 

“Lesson learned.” Jim held out a hand to help him stand. “Come back, it’s cold without you.”

 

Maybe they thought they were safe from watching eyes in the corner of the dark room, but as Freddie kissed him sweetly, Charlotte couldn’t help her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was in a really weird mood writing this and you can probably tell by the inconsistency of the emotions honestly


	73. Weighted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presents, and presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie here feels very Incandescent-esque but maybe I'm over-analysing it because it's 11:51pm

“Before you go-” Charlotte rested a hand on Jim’s arm. “I thought we could do Christmas presents. I know the others have gotten you some little things, and we’ve come together to get something for Freddie, too. I know it’s kind of last-minute, but I didn’t know you’d be bringing him along, and so we didn’t have time to buy him as much as we got you-”

 

“Mum-” Jim smiled. “Mum, it’s fine. It’s nice for you to have gotten him anything.”

 

Freddie came running down the stairs, smiling to himself. “I’m so keeping this jacket.” He told Jim, bundled up in his ancient teddy jacket, looking so happy and so comfortable. “This is amazing!”

 

“It’s terrible in the rain. It doesn’t keep you dry at all, but it is very soft.” He chuckled. “We’re just going to do Christmas presents before we go.”

 

“Okay.” Freddie smiled. “Can I make some tea?”

 

“Of course you can, darling.” Charlotte smiled. “This house is yours, sweetheart, as much as anyone else’s.”

 

“Thank you.” He said softly. “I’ll make a pot and bring it into the lounge.”

 

Jim pecked his cheek lightly and walked into the lounge, assuming that same armchair that Freddie and he had fallen asleep in last night. He smiled when he came into the room, his tray balanced with the teapot, enough mugs for everyone, a pot of milk and a pot of sugar; he looked pleased with himself. He poured one for Jim and for himself before everyone dove in on the teapot, and watched the level in the mug with an eagle eye as he carefully positioned himself in Jim’s lap.

 

“There’s more room this time. You could have your own seat.” Jim said softly, kissing his neck playfully to show he wasn’t serious.

 

“Why would I want that? You’re comfy and warm.” Freddie sounded almost child-like as he curled up contentedly. “I made you tea.” He handed over Jim’s mug with a smile.

 

“Thank you, darling.” He smiled and kissed him gently. “You’re so good to me.”

 

It was faint praise that always got Freddie the most, made him feel warm and content and like he was doing a good job; to be praised on himself, his actions, his decisions, meant more to him than being praised on the abstract qualities of his sweetness or his beauty. “I love you.” He said softly. 

 

“Love you too.” Jim smiled and sipped from his mug as his family started to exchange presents. 

 

“Freddie, darling, we got this for you.” Charlotte smiled shyly as she handed over a box; Freddie was struck by how heavy it was. “Jim mentioned that sometimes you have trouble sleeping, and this is supposed to help.”

 

He grinned eagerly as he put down his mug and tore at the wrapping paper. He wasn’t evened embarrassed that they knew about his anxiety anymore; he felt as though he could trust them knowing about his flaws. “Thank you so much!” He squealed before he’d even opened it.

 

He pulled out a blanket, only a little bigger than him, much heavier than he was used to. The material was so soft against his skin, a light cotton that felt so good; he hugged it close and smiled. “This is wonderful.” He said softly.

 

“It’s weighted. It’s supposed to help lower stress levels because it feels like you’re being hugged all night. It helps stop you from tossing and turning.” She explained. “I thought it might make it a little easier for you to sleep.”

 

Freddie smiled. “That’s so thoughtful.” He said shyly. “I never knew they did these.”

 

“Me neither.” Freddie laid it over the both of them; having something so soft and yet so heavy over him made him smile involuntarily. “Darling, feel this.” He leaned up and touched the blanket to Jim’s cheek.

 

“I’m probably going to feel it every night for the rest of my life.” He chuckled and squeezed him a little under the protection of the blanket. “It’s nice. I like it.”

 

“It’s so nice.” Freddie’s smile was inalienable, and it was that one that Jim loved the most, wide and proud with teeth on show. He went to cover his mouth instinctively but Jim took his hand gently, kissing his knuckles instead. “This is so incredible, Charlotte, thank you.” His cheeks were flushed pink with delight. 

 

“I’m so glad you like it.” She leaned over and hugged him. 

 

* * *

 

“This blanket is unbelievable.” Jim kept the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he cleaned up the wilting flowers in the hallway, another memo of an old performance. “He decided to get an early night after last night and he’s just- he went down so quickly.” He chuckled. “I sound like I’m talking about a baby.”

 

“I guess, in a weird way, he kind of is your baby.” Charlotte laughed. “You certainly have to look after him.”

 

“I like it, though.” Jim sounded a little shyer. “I really like looking after him. It’s like a weird kind of validation.” He admitted. “I think I spent so long being lonely that now I have a proper purpose. There were people that thought I’d get tired of him quickly, but I- I can’t imagine it ever changing.”

 

“You do sound truly besotted with him.” Charlotte smiled. “Darling, honestly, I think he’s wonderful. Just- make sure you’re careful, Jim, please.”

 

“I won’t break him.” Jim sat on the floor by the receiver. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of him, you know? I think I’m starting to understand him better, which will always help.”

 

“I didn’t really mean it like that.” Charlotte said quietly. “Just be careful for yourself. He seems so vulnerable, and you don’t want to be caught up if he spirals down again. You have to remember that it’s not your responsibility to look after him all the time. He is an adult.”

 

“I want to help him.” Jim said softly. “What kind of boyfriend am I if I just give up when he spirals? That’s when he needs me most.”

 

“But you can’t expect to fix him completely. You have to set your expectations at a manageable level, otherwise, it’ll tear you both apart.” She explained. “I’m not saying that you should leave, because I don’t think you should. I think you’re perfect for each other.”

 

“What do you mean, then?” Jim asked, suddenly quieter, sounding more child-like. 

 

“I just think that you have to be honest with what you can achieve together, and what he’ll need professional help with. Don’t put all the responsibility on yourself, because you don’t want to resent him if he doesn’t achieve what you both want.” She said gently. “Obviously, you know him far better than I do, because of how long you’ve been together, but still.”

 

“I really want it to work out.” Jim admitted. “I keep having all these silly fantasies, you know? I’d never tell him about them, but I just keep thinking about years in the future and what we could do together. If they legalise marriage over here, then that could open up so many possibilities for us.”

 

“Like what?” Charlotte asked curiously. Jim smiled and twirled a rose between his fingers; he hadn’t even noticed Freddie sitting at the top of the stairs, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

 

“If we got married, we’d be able to have children. It’s a silly dream, but I- I’ve had it all my life, even though I’ve known that I’m gay.” He admitted. “I’d really like children one day. And whenever I think about it, I always think about him. I can’t think of anyone else.”

 

Freddie’s feet were silent on the old wooden floor as he carefully padded downstairs. “I’d like them too.” He said, voice barely above a whisper. “One day.”

 

“I’ll call you back.” Jim said quickly and hung up, standing up and going over to Freddie. “I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“You didn’t wake me.” Freddie smiled. “I got hungry, and so I thought, instead of ignoring it, I’d come down and eat.”

 

Jim’s smile was nothing short of delighted. “What shall we have? I’ll order something if you want because I don’t fancy cooking.”

 

“I thought I’d make some noodles or something.” Freddie smiled. “Thank you for the offer, though.”

 

The words ricocheted through Jim’s mind;  _ I’d like them too, one day.  _ He wanted to ask more but felt as though they tottered precariously on the edge of the conversation instead of addressing it directly. “What did you mean?” He asked quietly, following him into the kitchen. “You want them too?”

 

“Children.” Freddie smiled shyly. “I thought I made it more obvious. I love children.”

 

Freddie loved in a way that Jim had never experienced; Freddie was the polar opposite of the men he’d been with, the ones that cared more about sucking cock than settling down. The men he’d met had all seemed to enjoy the casual lifestyle, had never thought twice about having sex and leaving quickly the following morning, had never questioned if there was more to love. Freddie though, Freddie loved so deeply, so hard, every little flaw or whim of Jim’s was honoured as though he spoke prophecies instead of dreams.

 

“I never realised you felt the same.” Jim spoke so softly. “Most men, they- they feel like they’ve gotten out of the burden of children by being gay.”

 

“Not me.” Freddie smiled. “I don’t tend to tell people in case it freaks them out. Sometimes people think I come on too heavy, and it weirds them out.”

 

Freddie was refreshingly candid that evening; Jim always enjoyed that side to his personality. “How many would you have in an ideal world?” He questioned, wrapping his arms around Freddie from behind. 

 

When he hugged him, he could feel the slight press of bones against his hand, and he frowned momentarily; he’d definitely lost weight again. “Two?” Freddie replied shyly. “Maybe three. Maybe four. I don’t mind.”

 

“You wouldn’t have one?” He questioned, resting his hands on the jut of those hip bones; he was almost in disbelief that he hadn’t noticed, that he’d hidden it so well.

 

“No.” Freddie shook his head. “I guess because I love Kash so much. I’d want my children to be able to experience that too, because I think it’s one of the best bonds in the world.”

 

Jim smiled then, putting his attention back on his words. “We could do it one day. You and me.”

 

Freddie looked over his shoulder and looked up, pressing a kiss to Jim’s jawbone. “You and me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know that video where Jim goes "I'm commonly known as Freddie's gardener, and privately, his boyfriend" because this chapter is sponsored by that
> 
> Shoutout to the lovely MagicalQueerFolk for featuring me on her tumblr page - if you guys ever want to create anything Fluorescent/Incandescent/Iridescent (is that a hint?) verse, or you want to review it and give me all your candid thoughts, or you even just see something that relates to it vaguely, I'm at least semi-active on tumblr (even though I don't look it!) and you can always post things there!  
> p.s. if you guys ever wanted to write something in this verse, then please do and tag me in it - I would be honoured!
> 
> Someone should do a count for this whole series as to how many times I have Freddie babied/someone refers to him as Jim's third baby/he generally regresses it would be an interesting study
> 
> Also, why have I given past-Jim a pimp jacket? Because it's about to become Freddie's favourite thing in the whole world, that's why


	74. Damper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an unspoken achievement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it - this is the final chapter of Fluorescent (with just the epilogue to come)! Thank you so much to everyone who has come along on this six month journey - I can't wait to give you the next instalment of this series!

Freddie turned over, hot breath ghosting over Jim’s neck, warm skin pressed against his colder side. The first thing that Jim noticed was the press of bare skin against his own, a lack of barriers between them, none of the usual fabric that separated their bodies. Freddie never slept naked: it was a testament to his previous experience, clothing made it easier to wake up if he was attacked, another step that he’d have the chance to recognise through a haze of drugs and fear. 

 

Freddie, though, Freddie was fast asleep against his chest, cheeks still flushed with the exertion of sex, hair hanging in his face, damp curls cooling the skin of Jim’s shoulder. Jim admired his resilience, his complete determination to overcome his fear of sex, his belief in the power of trying again and again until he was finally able to make love without panicking afterwards.

 

This time had been sleepy, silly morning sex, slowly materialising from soft kisses to something more heated, Freddie on his back and panting into his shoulder, Jim unable to stop kissing him, kissing his cheeks, his neck, his lips, his forehead, anywhere and everywhere that he could touch with his lips. It was when Freddie had giggled, glowing with the attention and the affection, that Jim had finally felt himself able to relax, feeling as though this time, for the first time, Freddie was truly able to let himself go.

 

They’d bathed before going back to sleep this time, a long and leisurely bath with water warm enough to get Freddie’s eyes drooping; Jim had settled into washing his hair, rinsing it slowly, and Freddie had let himself be cared for without so much as a murmur of complaint or worry. Freddie, for the first time, had let himself be looked after.

 

Jim ran his fingers through his hair, his heart beating just a little faster as Freddie inhaled deeply, on the verge of waking. It hurt inside every single time he saw Freddie panic, every time he was haunted by a memory that Jim couldn’t scare away for him, every time something that Jim had done had reminded him of a foul monster, some unscrupulous bastard who’d set his hands on his darling without considering whether he wanted it. The unexpected attacks were bad, having to talk him down from some awful, accidental trigger, but ones he could predict were worse in so many ways, the anticipation and the adrenaline and the knowledge that those gasping, awful sobs were coming again-

 

Freddie yawned and opened an eye, cuddling closer into Jim’s side. “It’s so cold.” He murmured into his boyfriend’s neck, settling down with the softest little breath of air. “I’ll build a fire in a second.”

 

Jim paused for a second, allowed himself to breathe, to relax. “Are you okay?” He asked softly.

 

“I’m good.” He smiled sleepily and squeezed an arm around Jim’s waist. “That was amazing.”

 

Jim started beaming and kissed Freddie’s forehead. “You always make me feel good.” He said, squeezing him tighter for a moment. “I’ll build that fire, darling, don’t you worry.”

 

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Freddie smiled cockily and lounged amongst the sheets. “Because I don’t actually want to get up.”

 

Jim rolled his eyes playfully and stood up, but he couldn’t deny that Freddie’s happiness made his heart glow gold. Freddie whistled playfully as he walked over to the fire, propping himself up on his elbows to admire the view. “That’s an ass to die for, darling.”

 

“It’s all yours.” Jim grinned over his shoulder. “I did used to bottom, and a good ass is par for the course.” 

 

“Did you?” Freddie yawned and lay back down again as Jim started making the base of the fire. “Why don’t you now, then?”

 

“It’s more your thing than it is mine.” He shrugged. “I want to make you feel as comfortable as you can be, sweetness.”

 

“You’re so lovely.” Freddie flipped onto his stomach and lay at the foot of the bed, watching his lover. “Make sure you don’t put too much paper in it, you don’t want it to smoke.”

 

“I’m trying!” He chuckled and added a little more wood to the fire. “I can’t even make it catch.”

 

“Have you opened the damper?” Freddie grinned and rested his chin on his hand; Jim wanted to kiss his smug smile and the silly curls that hung down in his face as he lay like that. 

 

“Of course I have.” Jim rolled his eyes and struck another match, lighting another piece of paper.

 

“Are you sure?” Freddie’s grin was too sure and Jim leaned over to kiss it from his face.

 

“Of course I’m sure.” He repeated.

 

“That’s cute.” Freddie cupped his cheek and kissed him again, smile still bright as he hopped down from the bed and turned the damper lever quickly. “You have to turn it away from yourself.”

 

“How do you know my house better than I do?” Jim laughed and kissed him, carefully pushing him up against the wall. “Would you want a bedroom fireplace in our first place together?”

 

Freddie’s smile turned sweet and he relaxed into the kiss. “Of course I would, silly.” He looped his arms around Jim’s neck and kissed him soft and slow. “I’d love a little penthouse. I like small places.”

 

“That’s because you’re tiny.” Jim squeezed his waist playfully and kissed both his blushing cheeks. “A tiny place for a tiny man.”

 

“You make me sound about seven.” Freddie laughed shyly against his lips.

 

“You are only nineteen, darling.” Jim chuckled. “That makes me sound like a cradle-snatcher.”

 

“It’s four years.” Freddie ran his fingers up into Jim’s hair, feeling the softness against his skin, never pulling. “You’re hardly an old man, I’m just young for my age.”

 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Jim promised as they broke apart; Freddie squeezed his hand as the fire started to catch, the warm glow filling the room. He lay back down as Jim carefully added bigger pieces of wood, becoming momentarily absorbed in what he was creating.

 

When he looked back around, Freddie was tangled in blush-pink silk sheets, painted an ethereal, milky gold from the firelit and the weak morning sunshine. Dark hair stood out like ink spilt on paper, messy and uncontained and the perfect way to liven up such a delicate scene. If Freddie was anything, Jim mused, he was these textures, these colours, peaches and silvers and pinks and baby blues, silks and cashmeres and velvets, soft and gentle and perfect. Even more than that, though, he was the dark blue in the light, the orange in the pink, the fuschia in the pink, disco lights on silk sheets, exciting and vivacious and lightly spiced, turmeric in coffee or nutmeg on top of tea.

 

Jim lay beside him, arm wrapping around his waist, and he smiled. “One day I’m going to ask you to marry me.” He said softly, lips practically touching.

 

Freddie mimicked his smile, the perfect game of call and response. “And one day I’m going to say yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, if anyone wants to celebrate with me, I officially got the grades I need to study in London - A*A*A!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading - I hope you're equally as excited for this fic as I am! As always, please leave me lovely comments and kudos down below, and please message me on tumblr /immistermercury if you want to talk anything Queen/BoRhap!


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